Not Over Yet
by natiwati
Summary: Two torn ex-lovers grow to rekindle old flames once their paths recross, after nearly six years of learning how to live without each other. (in re-writing process)
1. We're Not Just Dreaming Anymore

**A/N:** *rises from the dead to re-write this story for the sake of my perfectionism*

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _We're Not Just Dreaming Anymore_ :.

.: Part I :.

.: Chapter I :.

* * *

The candlelight flickers for a long time, casting shadows that shiver with every silent flicker of the flame.

It's cold outside. The wind stirs, howling reminders of what once was, what now should be. Eren holds his hand up to his face, surveying the crescent line that stretches across the palm, calloused by years of molding lumps of clay into shapes and etching figurines on leveled surfaces. He closes his eyes, remembering, but trying so hard to forget. And it's useless, for his scars bear the permanent markings of a lifetime, and at twenty-five, he's lived long enough to be covered in them. From palm, to cheek, to chest, to thigh, to ankle: covered.

Once, there was a time when his skin was taut and pure, unmarred by the symptoms of a harsh life. A time when his hair wasn't so long and his cheeks so stubbly and his mother was alive and the dents between his fingers were made solely to be occupied by those of the girl he was born to come together with. And now all of that—gone. In one breath, life billows and heaves to leave behind only fragments of what once stood so rooted and proud. By the anvil of time, even mountains can be made to ashes, it seems. Even men.

Growing older has often left him wondering when it was that it all went wrong. Was it when he first lost her? His innocence? His compassion? What? He's been sad for so long that it's become his new neutral, his new normal, a syndrome of adulthood, a comfortable state. His eyes—an impossible mix of green and gold and blue—are still vibrant and rich, but a hazy film covers the incandescent shine they once reflected. That is what happens to gazes once they've seen too much. They become heavy with experience. Soiled with it. Dull.

The boyish laughter that once filled him echoes through his past, fading into the stagnant drone that is the present moment. Reminding him that once, long ago, things weren't always this way. They were once okay. Livable. But loss has a way of eroding things, of changing everything.

Dancing shadows grow to consume the walls around him, veiling the room in darkness when, with a sigh, wet fingers pinch the candlewick. He extinguishes the flame.

Just like that.

That's exactly how she left him.

**—o—**

Her scarf flutters in the wind. Mikasa fixes it tighter around her neck, grunting.

It's cold outside. Too cold. She peers down the street, gloved hand waving up to hail, "Taxi!" whence a cab pulls over just a few feet away. She goes to make a run for it, but a blonde man with steely eyes is quick to claim it, pulling on the door handle and shooting her a brief look of indifference before stuffing himself inside.

"Asshole," she spits under her breath.

God, it's cold out here. _Too fucking cold!_

"Taxi!" she calls again, shivering. Her teeth clatter. She curses some more. A few despairing moments later, and she finally manages to steal her way into a cab.

"Where to, Miss?" the driver asks, peering at her through the rearview mirror. His eyes are hooded and dark, almost leering. It occurs to her that she's to entrust her safety to this man, this utter stranger. Who's to say anything keeps him from acting upon perverse impulses and driving off the side of the road with her still inside? Funny, how things work this way, how silent agreements are exchanged between people. Pay them, and a person with dreams and hopes and skills and purposes beyond driving a cab become mere services that carry you from one place to the next, a tool to use in exchange for money. People using people. It's just the way it goes.

"Ma'am?"

Her eyes dart back to focus.

Through the mirror, she sees him wait.

"Where to?"

_As far away from here as possible_, she's tempted to say. Although it hits her—_Why?_ Why would she want to say that?

She shakes her head.

Pronounces the address.

The driver gives a single nod, and soon enough, his foot is pushing down the gas pedal, hands are turning the steering wheel, and Mikasa is that much farther away from home.

She stares at the moving world outside, blurry city lights sliding past her eyes, illuminating her face through the glass of the window. Absently, her hand finds the scarf coiled around her neck, fingers pinching the fabric, feeling it, caressing it.

Remembering.

It's so tempting to delve deeper into her thoughts until they utterly consume her, to allow herself to wander and to feel. For once—just once—to truly _feel _something. But Mikasa is strong. Much, much stronger than that. There's no time for fantasies, that time has long since passed. She's not a child anymore. She's a woman now. A full-grown woman.

The shimmering engagement ring claiming her left hand and the hard, wet kiss her fiancé plants on her cheek when he greets her is enough to remind her of that.

**—o—**

Move. He has to move.

Perhaps it's the chill in his apartment or the lull of sitting still for so many hours but Eren's muscles ache. Get up, they screech. Up. Walk. Move. Get the hell out of here.

He stands, stops by the window, peers out.

His eyes deceive him, for they claim to see her, but he knows it's not really true. Her dark hair up in a ponytail, swaying with every gentle glide of her legs, beaming with recognition. But then the small head turns to reveal a face so foreign it's disgusting. And Eren—always—is disappointed to learn the truth. It's never her. Never. His eyes haven't caught the real sight of her in years.

In five. In five whole years, actually.

All that time has passed since he last saw her, held her, ran his fingers through her hair. Kissed her, loved her, heard her sigh his name. Heard her gasp it. And with the gradual ascend and descend of their chests, and the soft releases of her breath, he belonged to her as much as his own name belonged to him. He was hers. Hers entirely.

And that's the problem with belonging to people. You don't know how to belong to yourself.

Lost, he's ambled through the past five years like a ghost swimming in its shell, utterly disconnected from his body. He was hers for so long that taking a breath without having her sighs to synchronize with became foreign. How can his lungs work without respiring in harmony with hers? How can his heart beat without having her pulse to guide it? How can he live? How? How?

How?

It's not that Eren feels alive, but he keeps on existing.

Amazing, what's become of him. He isn't a child anymore, for the stubble on his cheeks and his unkempt, long hair are enough to remind him of that. He's an adult now. A full-grown adult.

A failure. A big fucking failure.

He sighs, glances out the window again. The wind is so strong it practically rattles the windows, but his bones creak from the cold and his muscles scream for motion. He has to do something. He has to move.

So, soon enough, a coat is lading his shoulders, apartment keys and leather wallet have been shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, and the door is slamming shut behind him in his egress.

**—o—**

Mikasa's tired.

Tired of this dress. Tired of this party. Tired of these people. Tired.

Her fiancé's rambling on beside her, talking about some kind of sport she doesn't particularly care about with an arm looped around her waist and a smile on his face, holding her close to him like his very own shiny, life-sized trophy. And he shows her off. He _loves_ to show off his trophies.

Mikasa nods and smiles, offering polite little gestures of attention and appreciation to the guests, even though her mind has long become numb to the bureaucratic routine. Talk, talk, talk. Impress, impress, impress. Money, money, money. That's all these people care about.

Since she was very young, Mikasa always knew she was different. She was what most people would call "aloof" or, in simpler terms, "disconnected." Lost in her own little world, she's used her imagination to escape from the pain of reality for as long as she can remember. And it's painful. Existing is painful. Pretending to care about half of the junk that comes out of these people's mouths—painful. Painful. Ugh.

Her eyes land on the view through a tall window, muffled voices around her dwindling to the back of her mind. Outside, the tree branches bend and sway, moving to the sibilant winter air. She shudders, and she longs. Even though it's cold and windy, how nice wouldn't it be to be outside right now? She feels like she belongs out there—more than she belongs in here, anyway.

She's fixing a tiny tendril that has escaped her fancy updo behind her ear when her fiancé notices her being distracted, eyes still glued to the bending trees, so he plants another wet kiss on her cheek to capture her attention.

Mikasa jumps, slightly flustered.

"What's wrong?" he asks her, a big grin etched on his face. It's like his facial expressions never match the words that come out of his mouth. Devoid of any signs of concern or worry, he voices, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she says, managing a tiny smile.

He gives her a sideways stare, scrutinizing her. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"Are you thirsty?"

"No."

"Can I get you anything?"

Mikasa sighs. He's always aiming to please her. Her, and the attentive eyes that watch them. With a smile that seems almost plastic, one of the ladies that stands in the circle around them eyes her up and down, sizing her up, the way some women do.

"Jean," she sighs, untangling his arm from around her waist. "I'll be right back, okay? I have to go to the ladies room."

He flashes her a smile, says alright, and Mikasa is making her way through the mingling crowd of foreign people before he—or anyone else surrounding them—can say anything more to her. She feels a suffocating need to flee. No more people, no more words. No more no more no more.

She reaches for her jacket, fixes her scarf around her neck, loops her tiny purse over her shoulder, and escapes through the back door, sparing a quick glance behind her.

She doesn't think anybody saw her leave. And it's not like any of them really care about her leaving. It's not like any of them can pronounce her name correctly—or even remember it, at that.

"_Wait, what's your name? Mik... Mi… what?"_

"_Mikasa."_

They always laugh. Like her name is some kind of sick joke or something.

"_Wait, how do you pronounce that again?"_

"_Mee-kah-sah. Mikasa."_

"_Oh, my God!"_ they cackle. _"That's so wonderful!"_

Jesus. Everything is fucking wonderful. Like the fact that she's half Japanese, and the fact she's named after a battle ship, and the fact that everybody swears she's pregnant for agreeing to marry Jean so soon.

She won't ever admit this to herself, but their comments sometimes hurt her.

Sometimes.

As soon as she's outside, she spots one of the guests leaned against a wall, sporting fancy trousers and a silk shirt under a black coat. She gives him a faint smile. He takes a long pull from his cigarette. They stand in silence. All is still.

And for a second she belongs.

Here. In the cold. Accompanied by a stranger she entrust her safety to. Because he could act perversely if he wanted. He could flick the ashes from his cigarette onto the supple surface of her skin. But he doesn't. And she stands, with company but isolated and all sorts of twisted up inside.

"You alright?" he asks suddenly, blowing smoke out of his nose.

Mikasa nods her head politely, assuring him she's fine.

"Congratulations," he tells her then, and she thanks him nobly, forcing another smile, another small bow of her head—and _God,_ it hurts to have manners sometimes.

Yes, yes, yes, congratulations. She's going to be a wife soon. This is her engagement party. How exciting is that? How lucky is she?

But as she's making her way down the street, scarf fluttering gently in the wind, feet slowly treading one step after the other, Mikasa has to admit:

She isn't feeling very lucky at all.

**—o—**

Eren's shoulders raise against the chilly air. He keeps on walking, not bothering to take shelter from the cold. He just has to walk. Something inside him reverberates _walk, walk, walk. Just walk, Eren. Walk._

So he does.

He treads on aimlessly, stuffing his hands into his pockets and exhaling heavily through his nose. His breath turns to fog before him, swiftly carried away by the wind. There's music playing outside. Christmas music. His eyes briefly wander over the street, noticing the absence of snow decorating anything. A snow-less Christmas is approaching. Those are the worst. They remind him of—

"_Ow!_"

"Hey!"

It all happens in an instant.

He's falling forward, catches something. A woman. She's falling too.

His arms are frantic, circling around her waist, stopping her from bouncing right off his chest where she'd rammed into him violently. One of his hands flies free, and he holds himself upright from the nearest wall it can land on to stop them both from falling to the ground like a pair of broken puppets.

He's breathing heavily. Panting. They both are.

Then he's angry.

He pulls the woman back, gazing down to catch a good look of her.

_Watch where the hell you're going! _The words are right there. Right there, hanging by the very tip of his tongue. But suddenly, Eren can't speak or breathe or think because… because…

Because suddenly, he sees her.

_Her._

She's staring up at him, wide-eyed, her irises deep pools of black ink he knows so well, so damn well. His voice falters. All of him does.

But the girl gasps then, clasping his collar feverishly and breathing a bewildered, "_Eren?_"

**—o—**

It's him.

Him.

This is a dream. It has to be a dream. It has to be. But no. No, no, _no it isn't_. Eren smiles, his emerald eyes shimmering as his face brightens, one sleepy feature at a time.

"Mikasa?" he whispers, astonished. His hands grip her shoulders. "Oh my... holy..." Eren's voice is tight, strangled with excitement. "_Fuck_. Holy... _Holy shit!_"

Mikasa laughs. Eren's flabbergasted, slapping a hand on his forehead like he can't believe what's happening to him. He lifts her up gently, carefully, pulling her to stand upright on her feet. She's so light in his arms, so so so light. So much lighter than he remembers her ever being. A porcelain creature, a delicate doll. "It's you," he whispers, as if voicing it will make her that much more real. "It's you!"

"I'm—"

"I can't—"

"It's like—."

"Mikasa, I—"

The way she stands, poised and elegant as always, is a clear presentation of the girl he remembers so vividly. Eren isn't dreaming. She's real. The girl standing before him—Mikasa Ackerman—_it's really her!_

But Mikasa can't bring herself to realize what's happening at all. Something in her mind tells her this is all just another dream of hers. She's gotten so used to dreams, you see, used to phantom memories of him, to the abrupt awakenings that always follow. She never wants to wake up when she has those either, those perfect dreams of him. So she thinks, _maybe if I just play along, I won't wake up this time. Let me play along, and the dream will never end._

But then Eren lets go of her, and Mikasa sees that she's still clinging to his shirt.

Clinging.

To his shirt.

Clinging.

Wait. Fuck. She holds the fabric between her fingers. Pinching it. Feeling it. Caressing it.

Remembering.

Her features melt, eyes growing enormously wide, all the color draining out of her face until she's stone cold white. "E-E..." her voice cracks. "W-wait. _Eren!?_"

His lips part in equal astonishment. He pants, running a hand through his hair, feeling extremely self-conscious. "Um." He glances down at her hands, still holding him in place. His voice is easy, gentle, so soft. "Yes. Yes, it's me. Eren."

"Eren?" she asks again, eyes growing even wider.

"Uh–" he laughs. "Mikasa," he's saying slowly, pressing his hands to his chest. "It's me! It's me, Mikasa. It's Eren!"

Mikasa's eyes are giant saucers, her face frozen in shock. Eren feels a small chuckle pass through his lips, taking flight to precise nuances he has not heard himself pronounce before. Has he ever laughed this way? Ever felt this way? Ever stood where he stands and looked at what he's looking at? Mikasa, the Mikasa of his dreams, the Mikasa of his past, his Mikasa manifested as a maiden of red dresses and fancy updos and frost-kissed roseate cheeks.

"Oh," she heaves suddenly, holding a hand to one side of her face. She turns away from him, paces back and forth and Eren keeps his eyes glued to her, only her.

She's walking around in circles when Eren studies what she's wearing. It's a dress. Red. Tight around her torso. It falls just above her knees, and her coat is thick and woolen and expensive. Her hair is up in a neat little updo, too. She almost doesn't even seem like herself.

His eyes fall to the floor then, drawn by the solid _thck, thck, thck_ sound that follows each of her footsteps and… holy shit, is she wearing _heels_?

Abruptly, Mikasa whips around to face him, and Eren's neck literally jerks back at the startling sight of her. Every time he looks at her is as if he's laying eyes on her for the very first time. "Eren," she pronounces slowly, savoring every precious syllable. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"Well, I live here. I've been living here for the past five years. New Years will mark my sixth."

Her voice is lost in a whisper. "Have you?

"Yes," he breathes, smiling. "Yeah, this is where I've been. What about you? What are you doing here?"

"I just..." she pauses, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. Alive. So vibrant and alive and happy. Inflated with elation, she sighs, "I'm just out for a walk. You know, just, looking around? I'm new to the city, you see, and have only been here for, well, it doesn't really matter I guess. Point is, my fiancé found a good job downtown, and he used to live here so—"

Eren's eyes wince. "Wait, what?"

"What?"

"Fiancé?" he echoes, hating the way his voice sounds. So breathless. So... appalled.

"Um." Mikasa glances down at her hands. They're shaking. "Yes," she says, re-adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. "Yeah, I'm getting married in a few weeks."

Eren opens his mouth. No words come out of him.

A few _weeks?_

Why? How? How could time be measured so precisely? How could something so delicate be compacted into the suffocating walls of _a few weeks_? Whatever happened to them? To lovers meeting once again? To time stopping to make room for forever?

He feels his heart sink in his chest. "That's…" Odd. Painful. Abnormally devastating and just… "Wonderful!"

"Really?"

No. "Yeah!"

"Oh."

"Congratulations, Mikasa!"

"Thank you," she smiles, gazing down at the ground. "Everyone tells me the same thing. They all think it's great that I'm settling down now. I'm very happy."

He narrows his eyes, nodding. But he can't help noticing that her words sound somewhat fabricated, like she's been repeating them to herself the way an actor over-practices their lines and ends up sounding monotonous at the delivery.

He doesn't really believe her.

And part of her suspects that, too.

"Yeah," he chuckles, scratching a stubbly cheek. "It's wonderful, Mikasa. Really. I'm very happy for you."

And that's when Eren sees it. Her left hand reaches to touch the fabric wrapped around her neck and his eyes catch the startling presence of a large diamond ring around her long, thin finger. Jesus. Just looking at the damn thing hurts. It's so large, so bold. So unnecessary.

But then… He notices something else. And it's his scarf. _His_ scarf, draped around _her_ neck, brilliant and radiant, like a statement decoration. His scarf! On her neck! She's wearing it!

Eren smirks.

He can't help feeling, by the way it stands out so blissfully from the rest of her clothes, that it actually doesn't go with her outfit. Like it doesn't actually belong there. But it's there, because it's _her_. That scarf is as much a part of her as her own limbs are—even now, after all this time!

Eren's smirk broadens into a smile.

The scarf is like a mark, a declaration. His own flag stabbed into soil, erected proudly and claiming victory over the land, branding it as his own.

"I was just making my way to eat something," she tells him, and part of her doesn't even know why she's admitting that. She may as well confess her entire situation. She may as well blurt out, _Hey, Eren. I know I haven't seen you in over five years and all but you should know that I'm engaged to this wonderful man whose friends are all asses who can't even remember my name or pronounce it correctly. Actually, I'm fleeing my own engagement party as we speak! Isn't that wonderful? _But she knows better. She knows better than to linger with him even a second longer. That's dangerous. That's _wrong_. She should say goodbye. She should walk away and run as far away from him as she can get. Because their past. Because they're both rich, too rich, with raw memories.

But she can't.

She can't bring herself to do it, to part from him, from his brown hair and his stubbly face and his glowing eyes and that dimple on his cheek that always flashes when he smiles. She's glued. Stuck. Like a nail drawn to a magnet.

"So was I," Eren murmurs, disrupting any further speech from her. "Do you wanna come with? I know this great place just a few blocks away."

Mikasa parts her lips to object, wailing alarms going off in her head screeching _danger, danger, danger! _"Um, no. I–"

"Oh, come on," he insists, swaying on his feet. "We haven't seen each other in _so long_! Come on, Mikasa, please? What's the worse that can happen?"

She's is quiet for a moment.

Tentatively, she glances over her shoulder, searching silently for a figure in the dark.

There's no one there behind her.

She sighs. _Of course there isn't._

"Alright," she peeps, still convinced that she's caught within a dream, that whatever's happening _has_ to be fake, unreal, just a figment of her imagination. But there's nothing fake about the way Eren's eyes light up, as if they've been engulfed in bright flames. He smiles at her. Beams.

And Mikasa smiles back. "I think I'd love that," she titters, smoothing her hair behind her ears. "You could show me around while we're at it, too. I'm still new to this place, so I could use all the help I can get?"

Eren practically implodes with excitement. "Sure! Your fiancé hasn't shown you around?"

"No," she huffs, thinking of Jean, the party she's fleeing, the ridiculous irony of her life. "He's... a busy man."

"Ah," Eren nods, "I guess it's a good thing I get to do the honors, then."

Mikasa rolls her eyes at him, and Eren—he just laughs. He laughs. A few moments ago, he was a lost man. A wandering man. A wanderer. Now he's found. He's found. Discovered.

He drags a hand through his hair, and it falls just over his shoulders, wisping out slightly at the ends. He looks so different, so worn. Rugged and austere. Troubled. Yet so new, so new. This is what the sun must feel like when it meets the world again each morning. Like it's been there before, yet everything is different. Reintroduced.

Mikasa bites her lip.

Something inside of her screams _wake up, wake up, wakeupwakeupwakeup!_

But she isn't dreaming anymore. This time, Eren is here for real. And he is nothing—_absolutely nothing_—like the man she's seen in her dreams for so long. Because people grow and become different, and the marks of time's passing has embroidered change onto them both.

She tightens her coat around her figure, diamond ring shimmering slightly in the light.

Eren feels for his wallet in his pocket. He feels his pulse in his ears—thump, thump, thump, reverberating the image of her, the feel of her, existing right there in front of him.

And his eyes haven't caught the true sight of her in years.

But now they do. But now they do.

That's when Mikasa offers him another one of her smiles, and Eren feels like the luckiest man in the world.


	2. Your Scent, Your Colors

**A/N:** I've really missed writing for these dorks. As always, thanks for reading. Be sure to leave a review and/or contact me on tumblr, where I have post news about my fics, playlists, metas, all that fun stuff. Nonetheless, enjoy!

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**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.:_ Your Scents, Your Colors _:.

.: Chapter II :.

* * *

_Black._

Short, obsidian hair. Tresses that spill down like waterfalls. Eyes so black you swear they can suck you in whole, keep you prisoner within the cells of her abyss forever. Her hands, her hair, her chest. The little dimples decorating the small of her back… They were all so beautiful. So perfect. So entirely her.

But they torment him. For years, that's all they've ever done. All these things stand as the grim reminders of all that Eren has ever lost. They remind him that everything was shattered as soon as that door fell shut behind her when she left.

_As soon as that rear view mirror had been ignored._

_As soon as those two cars had collided... and a frail body had been propelled straight out and thrown onto the sidewalk._

_And Eren had been too late._

_Eren had been too late to save him._

Those were the things, the two simple things: beauty and tragedy. They were the catalysts for what he has become today, a haunting shell of what he once was. An empty carcass.

A nobody.

Eren had died along with _him_.

Eren had perished at the permanent absence of _her_.

But then, as if someone has flipped on a switch, he is, just as suddenly, brought back to life. He is alive again.

He's alive.

He finds himself holding on to every shaky sigh, every nervous laughter, clinging to every passing second as if it were his very last.

Because once, there had been a promise, a vow: _"Always, Eren. I will always be with you."_

And the girl...

The girl.

She is all that he can see. Like a fervent beacon, her light is brilliant and intense. Blinding. Real.

And he sees her.

He sees her even though his eyes are merely glued onto the ground.

**—o—**

_Green._

Eyes so green, the earth grew envious of them. Eyes that crinkled as he laughed, that flared when he was angry, that shimmered blue-green when he cried, as if the ocean decided to claim what the earth was too afraid to touch.

Green. The color of life, of all living things. The trees, the leaves—even the blue sky... they all lived within them. As far as she was concerned, everything that ever lived resided right in there... within those two brilliant orbs carved onto his face.

His eyes. She'd loved them. She'd loved _him_.

Times with him were like radiant bursts that marked the timeline of her existence. Wherever Eren had been, wherever he'd touched, became a place that would glow and burn for as long as there was any breath left within her, like a flame that refuses ever to give out.

And that was him. That was Eren.

He was a flare, a fire, a wild frenzy of emotions that palpitated with every breath. He was music. A song. A spectrum of bright colors and loud, discordant sounds that blended into soulful, quiet tunes. Tunes that only she could hear.

But then the light had begun to fade once, and the colors no longer bled through. All music ceased... after that terrible accident, and the bright spectacle of green had slowly fogged into black. Beyond the stretching tint of blackness, her eyes could no longer catch the sight of anything at all. Only darkness. Only plaguing nightmares and empty dreams.

And Mikasa had forgotten what it was like to be alive then...

Until, suddenly, someone turned on that light.

**—o—**

Ice particles crackle beneath the soles of their shoes, leisured steps synchronizing with one another. All is silent, save for the solemn murmurs a breeze that tosses his hair, ruffles the skirt of her dress and nips at the bare expanses of her legs. And Eren unbecomes, cancels anything he has ever been to be nothing but this, what he is now, this very moment. Whereas once the arrow of time pointed him backwards to the past, now it pulls him forward, unraveling delicately, piece by piece, step by step, second by second. And the girl remains beside him. Breathing. Radiant. Alive. Although he feels that at any moment she may vanish, like a wisp of smoke lost to the wind—she's here. She's here. With him.

Mustering the courage to acknowledge the dazzling presence by his side, he finds her already staring. "Eren," comes her voice, all lisp and breathless and familiar.

"Yeah?" he breathes, fascinated.

"I was thinking," her eyes fall to the ground, following their footsteps. "Um… perhaps it's best if we…"

"If we what?"

"If we just… grab something to eat? Catch up for a bit? I should have mentioned, I have somewhere I need to be."

"Oh."

"I should've mentioned—"

"It's alright."

"I really—"

"Don't worry about it."

"No—"

"It's—"

"Wait—"

"Yes?"

"I'm just—"

"What?"

They halt. Mikasa scoffs, shakes her head, lifts a gloved had to her cheek. It blooms. Pink with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and Eren smiles.

"No, I'm sorry. You talk. I interrupted."

"I'm just…" she begins, standing still in all her grace, all her splendor. Eren stares at the wisps of her eyelashes, the tip of her nose, the corners of her mouth that curve up ever so slightly. "I'm… I'm just really happy to see you."

His smile grows. "Me too."

It's a few moments before they begin walking again.

"Well… that's fine," Eren says after a while, peering at her through the corners of his eyes. "I was going to suggest that anyway since, you know, it's cold out and all you're wearing is a dress."

Mikasa sighs. "It's a long story."

"I bet."

And they've got time, they've got time. Enough time to walk and wallow in the sound of each and every one of their footsteps. Enough time to peek sheepishly at one another and then coyly look away. Enough time for Eren to dash suddenly to a door by Mikasa's right and hold it open, beaming, "We're here!"

Mikasa balks. "Here?"

"Yep!"

"Here where?"

"Well, you wanted to grab a bite, didn't ya?"

"I mean…"

"So, here we are!"

So there they are. And the place looks… foreign. Quaint. French? Certainly not English.

"Sasha's café et boulangerie." Yep. Not English. "It's French." Ah.

He beckons for her to go inside.

Mikasa raises a brow at him and questions, "Did you just pick this place out on a whim?"

"Yes," he grins, and his bright eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "Well, no. Not exactly. My friend owns this place, so I might be a bit biased, but they serve the coolest food! This place is awesome!"

Mikasa snorts gently into her fist, shaking her head.

"What?" Eren smiles, still holding the door open. Customers inside are beginning to eye him suspiciously.

"Nothing," she says, smoothing out her dress. "Nothing. Let's just go inside."

Calmly, she makes her way past him, into the cafe, and that's when Eren catches her scent. It cements him in place, for he's swarmed with a current of emotions. She smells nothing like the girl of his past, her clothes tinged with a perfume so rich and expensive it leaves him aghast. Skin that pure was not made to be tainted by such artificial scents. She smells like a leggy model he'd once hooked up with, and although her face has been blurred in his memory, he still remembers the Chanel No. 5 that had seared his senses numb, a perfume meant to entice defying its purpose. And now this same scent is on Mikasa. Her.

Unaware, she stands in the queue leading to the front counter, staring up at the different options of food and beverages scribbled on the chalkboard menu hanging by the wall behind the small barista girl, racking her brain and trying to make out what a _tarte tatin_ and a _tarte au chocolat_ are. And she's so oblivious, so lost to the qualms that seethe within him, so disconnected from the world. She stands as if amid an altar, unadulterated by her surroundings, and Eren watches her peruse the menu, ignoring the plethora of desserts inside a glassed display right in front of her.

He smirks. Oh, Mikasa. She really is just odd like that. It's pleasantly reassuring for him to know that at least that little bit of her hasn't changed at all. Always one to make simple things so unnecessarily difficult.

"What's a..." she peers behind her to speak to him as he makes his way to stand by her side, "tartee... _tateen?_"

Eren scoffs. "You mean, a _tarte tatin?_"

"Yeah. That's what I meant."

"Um..." He looks down at her hands. They're trembling. He glances at her shoulders. Shivering. Mikasa's still cold.

Eren closes his eyes and sighs. If this had been five, maybe six years ago, he would've wrapped his arms around her and rubbed his hands over her arms, offering her his own heat until her body stopped shivering. An old, primal need for him to do so stirs within him, but he, of course, ignores it.

"It's a type of upside-down apple tart," he answers finally, crinkling his nose. "You won't like it."

"And a _tarte au_... Ugh. _That_." She points at the French scribble on the menu.

Eren leans in a little closer to her, following the line of her finger. "Ah, _tarte au chocolat?_"

She nods, slightly shaken by his close proximity.

"Chocolate tart," he says with a smirk. "Like a chocolate pie. _Dark_ chocolate."

At that, Mikasa's mouth falls open, her eyes popping into wide circles.

He simpers, "Oh, you'd _love_ that."

"Yes," she muses, her eyes glowing like a child's. "Yes, that's what I want."

"Alright." Eren digs his hand into his pocket to pull out his wallet. "If you want, you could go find us a place to sit."

"What?"

"A place to sit, Mikasa. Go find one."

"Why?"

He stares at her for a moment, blinking."What do you mean why?"

"Uh–" She nearly slaps herself over the head. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ "I just—" she shakes her head, mumbles, "never mind."

"I mean, unless you wanna try your luck ordering in French?" he smirks again, the curvature of his lips complementing the arch of his brow as he mocks, "From what I just heard, it sounds like you could use all the practice you can get."

"Oh, shut up," she retorts, punching him lightly on the shoulder, which makes him wince, laughing. "I'll go find us seats, then. So you can take your sweet time ordering in _French_."

As Mikasa walks away, Eren rubs his shoulder imperceptibly. Fuck, that girl is still strong. But he smiles stupidly to himself. He can't help it. The corners of his lips stretch in silent bliss, and Eren doesn't dare fight the warm feeling that washes over him. He feels flattered. Perhaps even a bit lucky, too.

That's the first time she touches him.

He closes his eyes and relishes at the contact, engraving it into his mind, as if keeping mental notes of their time together will make the situation that much more of a reality somehow:

_The first time in nearly six years that Mikasa touches me: A punch on the arm after I practically insulted her intelligence._

_Nice._

**—o—**

Something citrus with a hint of ginger and nutmeg. And then the natural scent of his woody musk… Lord. Eren smells exactly the same as before. _Exactly the same!_ How is that even possible? After all this time? He still smells of youth, of nature, of the wind outside. Of Old Spice deodorant and just... _boy._ Nothing like the scent of men's poignant cologne her nose has been violated into numbly accepting by now.

Mikasa inhales deeply through her nose, and even the wafting aroma of coffee and pastries permeating the cafe fail to ward off that persistent smell of his from her senses.

She feels... _sensitive. _Raw.

Maybe being near him just does that to her. His presence causes something to throb to life inside of her, something she can't really fathom. But perhaps it's just a bit too early into the night for her to understand. So, with a long sigh, Mikasa resumes her hunt for a free table, thinking to herself that it's stupid to feel anything from merely his presence and his smell. He probably hasn't even noticed _hers._

She finds a table by a window. It's small. Two tall chairs are tucked neatly underneath it. She decides to claim it, but then thinks about her heels, and her dress. Maybe sitting there isn't such a good idea, and the fact that they would be right by the window means people can see her if they walk by and…

_And that means Jean would be able to see her if he's looking for her._

She turns around, picks out the most isolated table and decides that that's the one. She sheds the coat and purse from her shoulders, placing them over the back of one of the chairs before sitting down, but not before feeling utterly uncomfortable at the way seemingly every pair of eyes turns to land on her. People whisper quietly among themselves as they gawk unbiddenly. They're probably wondering what the hell is wrong with her, wearing such a short dress in the middle of winter.

_I'm fleeing my own engagement party,_ she wants to sing out to all of them, let them in on the funny joke that is her life. But she doesn't say anything. Just lets out a tiny huff of exasperation before taking her seat.

She doesn't like the view from where she sits, though, facing the wall, and she can still feel people's stares chipping away at her back, so she stands up and switches to the booth across from her, leaving the chair for Eren to take without bothering to retrieve any of her stuff.

She crosses her legs, balancing a heel from the tips of her toes and bouncing her foot up and down, back and forth. From this angle, she can glare at anyone who stares. And also…

And also, she can see Eren. She can see him so well.

He's talking quietly to the barista girl and Mikasa can't hear a thing he says. Sitting in the cafe, only a stone throw away from one another, she suddenly feels deprived of him, like they are once again worlds apart. As if, if they aren't physically together, standing right next to each other, touching, then they aren't even in the same room at all.

The barista giggles and smiles coyly at his comments, and Mikasa can't help but smile too. Her imagination conjures all sorts of words he might be uttering, trying to make out the muted movements of his lips as if they danced to a song she could decipher.

She watches as the girl brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, batting her eyelashes at him like some sort of ravenous, blind bat.

Mikasa simpers. _Gross._

Eren says something else, and the girl starts bursting into giggles all over again, flipping her hair and curving her lips into a minx-like, clammy smile that has Mikasa practically choking back a gag. But then she sees Eren fishing through his wallet. And she gasps.

What an asshole she's being! She can't let him pay for her! That's so rude!

Mikasa scrambles to rise to her feet but, at that same instant, she sees an elderly man peering at her from over the thick rim of his glasses, a judgmental look scrunching up the wrinkles on his face. She's once again reminded of what she's wearing.

She swears under her breath. "Poop."

Melting back into her seat, she curses herself and everyone else in the entire place save for Eren. Why are they all still staring at her? Have they never seen a woman in heels and a dress before? Ugh.

That's when she realized that Eren is approaching. And she marvels at his appearance, at his long, unkempt hair that he's tucked behind his ears, at the stubble on his face that masks the smoothness of his features, at the length of his fingers that hold two steaming cups and stretch out below a plate of… Oh, my God.

_Chocolate._

She eyes the chocolate tart that is so dense, so dark, it's practically the same color as her hair. She's nearly drooling by the time Eren's reached her, but then her eyes divert to admire the way his hands hold the dessert so delicately, how the veins protrude near his knuckles under a blanket of tanned skin. And she remembers how they'd felt, so small and fragile in their childhood, only to roughen and callus through the years. And she wonders now how they must feel now, after all these years, if time has made them softer, gentler, friendlier. Because once, they served as weapons, as fists that broke skin and bones and fought against the cruelness of the world. But now all of him is a stranger. All of him is so new.

"You alright?" He asks her, setting down the drinks and plate on the table.

"Yeah, why?"

"You're blushing."

Mikasa almost falls out of her seat.

"What?" She chokes on a scoff, a wave of heat washing down her body. "_N-no_. No, I'm not. I'm just... I'm just cold, that's all."

"Oh." Eren nods his head slowly, seeming almost unconvinced, but he says nothing more on the matter, only hands her a fork before pushing the plate to her end of the table.

"So," he says, taking the seat across from her without bothering to remove her things, "it's good to know you still like chocolate. At least that much hasn't changed."

She nods, uncoiling the scarf around her neck. And he watches the way that damned diamond ring shimmers as she brings her hands to clutch the fabric. It's such a damn contradiction, that something so brash can come that close to something as precious as his own gift to her. His own scarf.

Eren knows he should tear his eyes away from her then. But he doesn't. He's practically holding his breath, eyeing the newly exposed skin of her neck like a blind man regaining vision. Without the scarf, he can really see what she's wearing. The dress is short-sleeved and a deep red color that bounces off the paleness of her skin like a traffic light in the night. A thin layer of lacy designs decorate the fabric, like an afterthought to make the rather simple dress seem more elegant.

His eyes scurry further down. It's not _too_ low-cut, but the dress fits a bit too tight around her bosom, which pushes her breasts back against her chest and huddles them close together, causing a thin slit to poke out from a place the dress can't reach to cover.

Suddenly, Eren's forgotten how to breathe.

He feels a solid pang. Pain. It slams into his chest with rapid force as he remembers… Her chest... _her chest. _That same chest that cages in her fervent heartbeat, the one he felt so well the night she left.

_When he'd laid himself on top of her, dog-tired, and her heart had slammed against his ear like a drum._

_And she was alive. And he was alive._

_Because he was hers, and she was his, and her skin was only his to claim when he'd fogged it with his breath, and his lips had collected tiny beads of her sweat as they grazed the surface. And he'd kissed it. And she'd moaned._

_His name._

_His._

_She'd gasped it. Again and again like some sort of desperate litany while he moved in her and she clawed at his skin as if she could absorb him into her own. And Eren had felt her tremble underneath him as his mouth marked her neck, and his hands filled with her breasts, and she'd poured his name out her lips like it took all the strength within her, even though neither of them had had any left._

And that was it. The last thing he'd ever heard her say to him. His sorry, broken name.

Mikasa isn't really looking at him, rather occupied with folding the scarf neatly and placing it above her lap, but Eren clenches his jaw and rips his eyes away from her, staring at some insignificant point in space, feeling his abdomen flush like shit down a toilet.

Damn it, damn it, _damn it all._

She's not his anymore. _She's not._ The obsidian hair, the abyssal eyes, the currant with raspberries smell of her skin and the little dimples on her back and her hands and chest and just... _her._ All her scents, all her colors, they all belong to someone else now. They're for someone else to claim, to kiss. To mark with his own lips. Why can't his rotten brain just fucking understand that? Why does he have to rattle himself into pain now? _Already?_

He doesn't know who her fiancé is but already, Eren decides that he hates him.

Miksasa peers at him, stricken by what she finds. He isn't looking at her and he seems mad. His brows furrow in displeasure and the corner or his jaw does that little thing it always does when he clenches it. She feels her face burn even more, convinced somehow that it's because of something she's done to him. Had he been offended by her blushing somehow? Did it make him mad that she'd let him pay? What's wrong with him?

Tentatively, she begins eating her food nonetheless. It isn't in her place to ask him anything about it. It's not like they're even friends, anyway... Just two lonesome idiots who'd bumped into each other in the middle of the night.

She chews decadently on a piece of the dessert, and her taste buds practically screaming at the chocolaty explosion of _tartie au chocco_—ah, whatever. Chocolate pie.

"Do you like it?" Eren asks her, and Mikasa nearly jumps, not expecting the sound of his voice to disrupt the silence so suddenly.

He sees her shrug rather apathetically though, her eyes trained coolly on the table and face fixed into a blank slate, scrubbed clean of all emotion.

He frowns. She isn't looking at him. Why not? Does she not like it? Does she... _Does she not like chocolate anymore?_

"Mikasa," he says.

Her eyes slowly rise to meet him.

"You do still like chocolate, right?" It's so dumb, but yet so terribly important.

And she blinks slowly, droning, "No. I've developed a terrible intolerance to cacao. I want you to know, Eren, that I will die now, all because you fed me something that I am terribly allergic to. You cannot fathom the damage you have caused."

He opens his mouth to speak, to say something—anything—but he's not even sure what to say to her.

That's when he sees her pinch her bottom lip between her teeth, her face slowly turning into a strained display of suppression until suddenly… Mikasa breaks into a bout laughter.

"Just kidding," she says through her giggles. "Why would I ask for a chocolate pie if I didn't like chocolate? Really, Eren?"

He sighs. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What?"

"That's not funny."

She shrugs, wiping the corner of her mouth with the edge of her wrist and smiling. "I think it is."

"Well, it's not."

"It is for me."

Eren shakes his head. "God, you're still a weirdo."

She holds up her fork, licking the leftover chocolate residue from the back lewdly before dipping it into her mouth.

He grimaces.

She laughs again, her shoulders trembling.

"I get it." Eren tries to fight the smile that threatens to seize his lips, but the sound of her laughter and the way her bare shoulders shake with every giggle make it hard for him to succeed. "You still like chocolate. No need to be so gross."

"Sorry," she says, suddenly bashful. "But maybe you shouldn't ask such stupid questions, Eren."

"Or perhaps you should invest on a better sense of humor."

She kicks his leg subtly from underneath the table.

"Ow!" he groans. "What the hell?"

"That's the second time you pick on me tonight. And it's hardly been twenty minutes since we ran into each other."

Eren's leg throbs where she kicked him. Jesus-fuck. And to think she did it with her bare foot.

"I can't help it," he says, bringing his drink to his lips. "I'm too used to teasing you."

"Well, then stop," she retorts, slicing the edge of the fork into her dessert. "Unless you want to end up without any limbs by the end of the night. You know"—she waves the fork around in the air between them as if it were a sword—"my specialty is slicing up flesh."

"Oh?" Eren's lips curve into a smile against the rim of the cup. "Is that so? You've always been all talk and no show, Ackerman."

"Watch it, Jaeger," she menaces.

Eren can't contain the chuckle that rumbles in his throat. "Sorry, sorry. I'll stop."

"Good."

He takes a sip of his drink. Swallows. Whispers, "Maybe".

Mikasa gives him another look.

He smiles again, then dips his head back slightly and swigs another long sip of his drink.

Her eyes linger on his features then, lost in gentle reverie.

His smile... It had been one of those rare ones where the tiny dimple by the corner of his mouth flashed. She saw it even from underneath his stubble. It only happens when he _really_ smiles, and she'd first noticed he had it when they were just kids.

_And it' s still there._

Well, of course it is. Because just like his smell, and his hair, and his eyes, and every other part of him, it's such a part of Eren, so wholly _him_, that not even time can erase it, and Mikasa practically has to remind herself of that obvious fact.

She closes her eyes and sighs, shoving another dark piece of chocolate pie into her mouth.

"What's wrong?" Eren asks her, and Mikasa's eyes snap open, not expecting the question.

"What?" she shrugs, chewing on her food. "Nothing's wrong, Eren."

"You look stiff."

"I'm just uncomfortable."

"Why?"

She swallows her food, then points the fork to a man blatantly gawking at her from two tables away. "That's why. Everyone keeps looking at me."

"Well, because you look beautiful."

"No," she sighs, and Eren swears he sees her cheeks turn a bit pink, but her voice is toneless when she continues, "it's because I look like an idiot."

"That's not true."

"It is."

"Why do you say that?"

She leans in closer and whispers, as if she were telling him a secret, "I'm wearing a dress in the middle of winter."

"But there's a reason for that, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then let them stare as much as they want," he dismisses, taking another swig of his drink.

Mikasa eyes him carefully, realizing how different his reaction is from her fiancé's. If she were ever to tell Jean that there were people staring at her, he would've glared and scowled at them, hovering over her protectively like a lion harboring his food.

Eren only shrugs though, sipping his drink and stealing little peeks at her from the corner of his eyes.

For a second, Mikasa thinks he'll ask for the reason why she even _is_ wearing a dress. But he never does.

In fact, now that she thinks about it, he hasn't even acknowledged the existence of her fiancé at all, or commented about the ring on her finger, which sort of surprises her. Eren's always been the overly curious type that never knows how to suppress his questions, but he's ignoring these things... as if mentioning them would steal them away from the scene.

She stares down at his hands which are clasped around the cup, eyeing the veins on the back of his hands again, getting lost in all their different curves and destinations.

_Maybe._.. Maybe it really would steal her away from that place. Because her fiancé is probably looking for her by now. Oh, God. _What if the whole party is looking for her? _She'd left her phone with Jean, even though she'd brought her purse. He _had_ to be looking for her. She's been gone for some time. They all have to be wondering where—

Eren swallows his drink down bitterly, grimacing before coughing into his fist.

"You shouldn't drink so fast," she tells him calmly, despite the mild torrent of panic reeling in her gut. "You'll burn your throat."

Eren rolls his eyes at her. "Please," he says, but doesn't offer anything else. Classic Eren. You can't give that man a single piece of advice without him rolling his eyes dismissively and swatting your sentiments away.

Mikasa realizes she still hasn't touched her drink, so she brings the still-steaming cup to her lips and blows on it for a few seconds before taking a small sip, tasting it. The drink is warm and smooth and gentle on her tongue, like a whisper. She gazes at Eren, eyes peeking up over the rim of the cup.

He's staring at her again. But not just staring at her—he seems lost in thought.

Something in her stomach tightens at the way his eyes bore into her, so sincere, so merciless, and she swallows her drink down slowly, careful not to choke.

She can feel her face and neck starting to heat up, but Eren doesn't even flinch his eyes away from her, so Mikasa lets out a slightly breathless sigh, trying not to stutter as she says, "What is it?"

"Nothing," he answers flatly, not even blinking.

"Then..." she speaks under her breath, as if speaking too loudly would make him break his eyes away from her. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Eren's eyebrows raise up slowly, but his features remain carved from solid stone. Eventually though, he smiles, running a hand through his bistre hair and letting out a sigh.

"It's just—" He shakes his head. "It's just that you've changed so much. But then again, you haven't. I'm just trying to make sense of you, Mikasa, but it's as if someone took this girl I knew so well and wrapped her up in different clothing and painted her face with makeup and now suddenly she took on a whole new role. I can't even recognize you, but at the same time, I do. I totally do. I just..." Eren sighs again.

Mikasa's hands tighten around her cup. She clenches her jaw and stiffens, but can't will herself to stop him from belaboring further on. Part of her wants him to continue. Part of her _wants_ him to say all the things she's not brave enough to voice herself.

"I guess I just can't believe I found you tonight," he finishes, eyes all hazy when he looks away. "That's all." His lashes flutter as he blinks off into space. His eyes—for once—cannot bring themselves to look at her directly.

Mikasa slowly drops her gaze to her own hands, staring at the cream-colored liquid in the cup within her grasp. Her ring shimmers slightly in the light.

She closes her eyes, deciding not to look at it.

He said "found you", as if he'd been lost, looking for her, and now everything is… everything's okay. Everything is better, because now she's at arm's length from him again.

Her brain tries not to accept the candid, wispy little thought that shouts and screams _and you feel the same way about him too, dummy! Tell him that. Tell him._

_TELL HIM!_

"I know," she whispers, her eyes still shut. "It's been... such a long time."

"It has," he agrees quietly, and the air grows denser between them, but not uncomfortable. "But I guess it's not our fault we've changed, right?"

He finally forces his eyes to meet her, and Mikasa smiles softly after opening her own.

"Yeah," she nods, but the drink is quickly stealing her lips thereafter, and that's the end of that conversation. Mikasa offers nothing more.

She never takes another bite out of that chocolate tart.

And Eren doesn't insist on teaching her the right way to pronounce it.

**—o—**

It's colder now than from before they'd gone into the cafe.

Eren hears Mikasa curse under her breath.

"Whoa, there, potty-mouth," he says as they stand outside. "I didn't know pretty girls in heels said 'fuck' so crudely."

"Fuck," she curses even louder. Her teeth begin to chatter. "Sorry. It's just so f-fucking _cold._"

Eren smiles. Mikasa isn't one to curse. Ever. He feels a tinge of honor at having witnessed the rare occasion, briefly wondering if she ever does it in front of her husband-to-be.

"Do you know how to make your way back?" he asks her.

"Actually," she glances around, "I don't."

"Would you like me to help you?"

"Anything," she spits, practically jumping up and down for heat. "A-anything just p-p-please get me out of this d-d-damn c-cold."

"Alright," he says. "Where is it that you're coming from?"

"Sina Plaza."

Eren raises his eyebrows, impressed. "Really?"

"Y-yes."

"You mean, _the_ Sina Plaza hotel!?"

"Yes, Eren!" She nearly power-walks in circles. "P-please, just help m-m-me out. Tell me where to go and I will t-take a taxi there."

"No way," he says before peeling off his coat and draping it over her shoulders. "It's just around the corner. Come on. I'll take you."

Mikasa's frozen into place, eyes wide in astonishment as he pulls the coat all snug and tight around her, rubbing his hands over her arms and shoulders to offer her more heat.

She gazes at him, bewildered.

"It's warm, isn't it?" he smiles, his face merely inches away from hers.

Stunned, Mikasa cannot speak, so Eren pulls her by the sleeve of her own coat and prompts for her to start walking. She follows suit, utterly overtaken by the scent of him that radiates off his coat. Ginger. Nutmeg. Old Spice. _Him._

After a long moment, she finally finds her voice. "Wait," she blurts. "Wait, Eren. I can't take your coat. It's too cold out here! You'll freeze–"

"Please, Mikasa," he groans, rolling his eyes, but she doesn't catch him doing it. "I can stand the cold. You know that."

She opens her mouth to object further, but no words come out of her, so he turns his head to look at her over his shoulder. She's gaping at the back of his pale cotton sweater, making out the slope of his spine and the muscles on his back from beneath the fabric, chewing on her lip as if she were keeping herself from saying something.

Eren smiles, stopping momentarily to allow her to catch up. He stares at her as they amble along side by side, just like he'd done before on their way to the cafe.

Mikasa doesn't look at him.

"Hey," he whispers, tapping her arm with the back of his hand. "Your teeth stopped chattering. See? It's working."

Mikasa scoffs, her breath puffing out as smoke.

"Now," Eren digs his hands into his pockets, "since I can't show you around the city tonight, I'll just point out every important place we see along the way and tell you a little something about them, okay?"

Mikasa stares at him for a quiet second, then nods her head. "Okay."

"Right. So..." He rubs his palms together, blowing hotly into his hands to heat them up, steam puffing into them and slipping through the cracks between his fingers. He raises a hand and points to a park across the street. "You see that place over there?"

She nods, following the line of his finger.

"That's Rose Park. Mostly rich people ever go there. It's an odd name for a park, I know, but people started calling it that since it has so many damn rose bushes. Nobody really calls it by its real name which, honestly, I can't even remember right now."

She laughs quietly at that.

"And that," he points to a building beside them, decorated from top to bottom with Christmas lights, "is an apartment complex. I dated a girl who lived there once."

Mikasa crinkles her nose.

Eren shakes his head, eyes wide and occult as if the memory of her came prowling back to haunt him. "God, she was _crazy_."

"I thought you were only going to point out the important places," she deadpans.

Eren smiles brightly at her comment. "Oh, sorry. You're right."

She nods, hands clutching the thick fabric of his coat so that it doesn't fall off her shoulders.

"This area is mostly for rich folks. You see that restaurant right there? They sell shark livers. Shark. Livers. I didn't even know you could eat that!"

Mikasa laughs again, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. "Apparently, you can."

"And the place beside them is an expensive vegan restaurant. I wonder what genius thought it'd be smart to set up a vegan joint right next to a place that sells shark intestines but, hey, I guess irony is gold, right?"

Mikasa's lips stretch into a smile that lingers as they walk. His hands fly out of his pockets occasionally for him to point, then scurry back inside for shelter from the cold.

"The diner I was gonna take you to is right down this street, but I'm afraid we won't be walking past it." He shrugs. "Oh, well. Another day, right? Oh! Hey, we turn here."

They turn at a street corner, walking down the sidewalk as Eren keeps on talking about a shop that opened just about a week ago, about a store that had been abandoned and everyone swears is being haunted by the deceased owner's ghosts, about this great doughnut place that was founded by the same guy that directed some episodes of _Friends._

She smiles. No matter what he says—even if she doesn't really hear him—Mikasa can't help but smile at his words. At his presence. At his being. At just…

Him.

There it is. That ardent, fervid spirit of his she's gone so long without. The Eren she always remembered, the one she knew so well: the roman candle that burned and burned and _burned_, never extinguishing its flame. The green eyes, the color of life, the frenzy, the storm. He's that burst of wildfire again, and Mikasa realizes that she feels... Suddenly... Inexplicably… Happy?

She feels so... _happy_ to be by his side, again, like she belongs. She can feel her chest swell up inside her, threatening to burst from joy at any second. His nose turns pink and his lips look a little blue, but Eren keeps on talking, not even considering asking for his coat back.

She nearly closes her eyes then, wallowing in the sound of his words. The low timbre of his voice—the gentle gruffness of it—and all the little gasps he emits after rambling on a little too long and ending up breathless.

Hearing him, like this, is like hearing the world again for the very first time. Everything is new. Pure. She feels something shake within her, as if her soul had begun to shake, fighting to break free of her body and dance. She laughs at something he says, realizing that's the most she's laughed in ages. She feels like the missing piece of a grand puzzle has been discovered, and a foreign heat takes over her. A cozy, warm, fuzzy heat. She feels safe. She feels content.

She _feels_ it all.

She realizes then, just how much she's yearned for him... in the same way wasted lungs will yearn for air. Being with him enlightens something essential within her, something ancient, something old. Something that belongs to her primal being, from the very moment she was born.

Eren looks at her and smiles, laughing briefly at his own joke. It's as if someone, or something, flips a switch and turns on a light in her every time she hears him laugh. Dark, empty spaces flicker and glow; a bright light floods the black planes that have gone unnoticed and untouched for so long inside her. How long has she gone without seeing that smile? How long has she gone without hearing that voice?

And what had happened, exactly, that made it all suddenly go away?

Something pricks within her chest then, like a scathing little blow to her heart. It's bittersweet, reminiscent, and Mikasa nearly crumbles into tears. This feeling... she cannot explain. And perhaps she doesn't even want to.

_If only._.. If only she could always be by his side. If only life could be as simple as this parceled moment.

But then Eren comes to a sudden stop, and Mikasa recognizes the place where they are standing. And just like that, it's over.

"We're here," he says, sounding defeated.

Mikasa exhales deeply, her chest deflating along with her breath. She can't fight the hint of disappointment in her voice. "Already?"

"Yeah," he smiles weakly, burying his hands inside his pockets and shrugging up a single shoulder. "I'm afraid so."

She sighs, shedding his coat from her shoulders and extending her arm to him, offering it back. Eren thinks he can sense a mild reluctance in her motions, but it's probably all just in his head.

"Thank you, Eren," she says quietly. "For the coat. For tonight. For that delicious chocolate pie thingy."

He laughs, taking the coat from her hand. "No problem. I honestly didn't think you were allowed to eat chocolate anymore. What with your mandatory diets and stuff."

She flashes him a grin, watching as he pushes his arms through the coat one thick sleeve at a time. "Actually, I'm not. But nobody has to know that."

"I won't tell," he whispers, winks. "Promise."

She gives him a little scoff before laughing, sighing heavily afterwards as if to say, _Yep. This is it, then. Time for me to go. _But they stand quietly for a moment after that, lingering, not really knowing what to do. The silence grows a bit awkward after a while, but neither of them are willing to interrupt it yet. Not yet.

Eren glances back at the hotel behind him, his brows raising slightly at the sight. He'd walked past the place about a million times before, but he'd never gone inside. Only super rich people ever really went there. And he, certainly, was not that. Which only makes him wonder what the hell is _Mikasa_ doing in a place like this?

He glances down at the ring in her finger, then at the scarf around her neck. Suddenly, he feels light-headed and weak. Panic throbs fervently within him,, threatening to form into a calamitous storm. Because he understands. Eren understands what's happening perfectly:

He has to let Mikasa go. He has to let her go _again_.

"Well," one of them speaks, and he realizes it's Mikasa. "I guess this is it," she laments, averting her eyes to the ground.

Eren takes a deep breath, trying to calm his sudden anxiety. "Yeah."

She opens her mouth to speak but ends up saying nothing. She can't bring herself to pronounce a farewell. So she reaches out her hand to him instead, nodding her head to prompt him to take it. Eren glances down at her fingers, eyeing the perfectly manicured nails, blinking at them for a moment before taking her hand in his own.

_Second time she touches me: When she leaves me._

_Again._

Mikasa stares down at their hands, watching as they sway up and down in unison. She pretends not to notice the large scar on his palm, which reminds her that the permanent scratch below her right eye is currently invisible, covered beneath a thick layer of makeup.

She pretends not to feel the heat of his palm melt the surface of her icy skin.

She pretends not to feel his fingers wrapped around her hand, denting the flesh, gripping gently yet firmly at the same time.

She pretends not to notice any of these things. She pretends that none of them matter to her as much as they actually do.

"Take care, Mikasa," he tells her, and she smiles softly in response.

"You too, Eren," she breathes. "You too."

Out of nowhere, he gives her hand a tight squeeze, and the pressure causes a surge of electricity to jolt up her spine, her knees nearly buckling beneath her. She closes her eyes, pretending not to feel it. Pretending not to be overwhelmed with the sudden realization that _this is it_. They'll never see each other after this.

When she opens her eyes again, his hand still gripping hers, Mikasa understands the lingering silence between them. He's feeling her hand. Feeling her. Remembering. Memorizing. Savoring.

How utterly odd and inconvenient is that? Eren always manages to make even the most trivial and inept things intimate between them. Like a glance. Or a smile. Or a handshake.

Finally, she tears her hand away from his, remembering her fiancé, which she knows she loves so much and must be worried sick for her—if not furious as well. Without uttering another word, Mikasa makes her way past him and to the tall, fancy doors of the hotel, making him freeze when he catches that foreign scent on her again.

He stands in place as he wires his brain into a trained, careful numbness, deciding he can wallow in the painful aftermath of seeing her once he's in the safety of his own home.

He turns slowly on his feet, and brings himself to walk down the sidewalk, one foot reluctantly following the other, ripping himself away from her like a newborn snapping free of its umbilical cord.

And this is what the world must feel like, when autumn too soon turns to winter and leaves it barren in the cold.

**—o—**

Mikasa's hand is clasping the door handle, about to pull.

But she stops.

Her hand trembles, even as her grip goes tight. Her whole body's trembling—and she isn't cold. Not anymore. Eren's heat still shrouds her completely even though he isn't with her anymore. Even though he's gone. Even though his coat no longer lades her shoulders.

She stares at her hand. At the engagement ring on her finger.

Something bolts to life within her. A question. An answer.

Is this it?

She closes her eyes.

No.

_No, it's not._

**—o—**

"Wait!"

She's shouting before she can even think to stop herself, calling for Eren as soon as she breaks away from the door. And she knows this is wrong. She shouldn't do this. She should go home. To her fiancé. To her friends. To her own damn engagement party.

But Eren doesn't hear her, he just keeps on walking.

"Hey, wait!" she hollers, running, nearly tripping on her own feet. _Damn these fucking heels to hell._

"Eren!"

Suddenly, he stops, his shoulders raising in alarm before he whips around to see her, eyes stretched wide in surprise.

"I..." Mikasa stands before him, panting slightly as she tries to catch her breath. "Um... sorry, I just... uh, I was meaning to ask you..." her heart is beating so hard she practically feels it pounding out of her chest when she says, "so how could I ever reach you again?"

Eren blinks.

His eyebrows raise in mild astonishment before knitting together into a frown. He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say, unsure whether he even heard her right, yet he still manages to sputter, "W-well, I don't have a phone right now. But if you want, I could give you my address?"

"Perfect," she pants before she can control herself, searching frantically for a pen inside her purse. Her hands are shaking as she rummages through, and she hopes Eren doesn't notice. "Do you have anything to write on?"

He stares at her, frowning, as if he doesn't understand what she's saying. Then suddenly, "Oh! Yeah." Promptly, he reaches into his pocket for his wallet, taking out a slightly crumpled piece of paper from inside one of the little folds. Honestly, what's that piece of paper even doing in there? How had it gotten into his wallet in the first place? Why had he kept it there for so long? It's a good thing he did though, and he silently thanks past Eren for being so smart.

She gives him her pen, and he positions it over the paper, using his folded wallet behind it for support. She watches him silently, hearing her own pulse drumming in her ears, her body surging with adrenaline as he scribbles his address down on the paper. She starts to shiver again, but not necessarily from the cold.

"There," he says, giving her the paper with his address on it.

Smiles. It doesn't even occur to her to give him her number because now she's suddenly afraid. She offers a small nod, turning around swiftly and throwing over her shoulder a breathless, "Goodbye, Eren. I'll see you soon!"

He stands frozen in place, bemused and slightly bewildered. He still holds her pen in his hand, and part of him wants to call out after her to return it. But his body is unresponsive under the shock and disbelief of what just occurred, and Mikasa is already bolting her way through the grand doors of the hotel like they weighed absolutely nothing.

"Yeah," he says under his breath, clutching the pen in his hand. He knows she can't hear him, but he still agrees with her aloud, breathing out a soft and hope-ridden, "Soon."

**—o—**

She hardly remembers walking through the front doors. She can't recall pressing down on the shiny golden button to call for the elevator. Or making her way inside, standing as straight and poised as always, punching on her floor number without as much as a sliver of emotion present on her face.

But then the elevator doors slide shut.

And she gasps, realizing she hadn't been breathing.

_Oh, my God. _Her legs turn to jelly, and she melts with her back against the wall, panting heavily as if she'd just ran a marathon. Because Eren. _Eren_. She'd just seen Eren!

Oh.

My.

God!

She laughs. It's short, nervous and shaky, but she laughs. Her chest and legs tremble profusely. Her heart flutters like a little bird inside a cage. "Eren..." she whispers aloud, not even aware of herself. The elevator dings with every new floor, its gradual ascend to her destination enclosing her into the tight, suffocating spaces of reality. But her heart and mind are floating out of her body in blissful reverie. Mikasa is utterly beside herself.

She looks down at her trembling fists.

His fingers. She can still feel them wrapped around her, holding on to her hand.

Holding _her._

He's not a dream. Dreams can't hold your hand. Dreams don't give you a piece of paper with their address on it.

Oh! That reminds her.

She heaves, bringing the piece of paper to her face and boring her eyes through the scribbled words.

A smile. It dawns upon her lips.

The ink is black, staining over the paper. She can see the stain the pen made when he'd hovered the tip over it, a little hesitant and unsure.

A dot of obsidian.

_Black._

But then, his handwriting follows, and she marvels at every dip and curve of the words, admiring even the hasty manner in which some jumble up together before they end, and she's reading the entire thing all over again.

_Ding!_ Another floor.

Mikasa folds the paper gently, carefully, as if she's afraid it might rip. She tucks it safely inside her bra, where nobody will find it. The paper feels sharp and prickly on her skin, but she smiles faintly, not daring to remove it.

She feels vibrant and live.

Whole.

Her eyes close and remember him. His eyes. His face. His dimply smile.

But then the elevator gives one last ding, and the doors slide apart to open right in front of her.

Mikasa opens her eyes, landing back into reality. Suffocating.

In an instant, she's toneless once again, all brightness and color draining out of her as she makes her way out, walking through the crowd of foreign people to stash away her coat and purse.

The party lights are bright and luminescent, but her eyes catch none of it anymore.

Because—even though there's music and people and colors all around her—someone has turned off that light.

**—o—**

Eren treks down the street, eyes glued to the ground. He looks down at his hand. He's still holding her pen. It's just a pen. Nothing special. But it's _hers. _

He sighs, remembering her hand in his. It had felt so strange, so delicate. Fragile. Not like her at all. Mikasa's changed, he thinks. Mikasa's changed so much.

But there is a tremendous relief that swells up inside of him, one so brilliant and abstruse that not even he can understand. It's as if, finally, he can breathe now. He can walk now. He can properly _be._

Suddenly, he catches his reflection in a window as he walks past a building. Damn. He almost doesn't even recognize himself. Eren is a stranger. _Still_ a stranger to himself.

It suddenly dawns upon him: _How did Mikasa even recognize me?_ His brain replays the events of the night over and over again. How she'd ran into him and nearly collapsed, how she'd felt so light in his arms, how she'd gazed up at him in alarm but then quickly recognized his face, bringing her mouth to pronounce his name. She'd recognized him even before he'd recognized _her_.

How? How?

And then... The way she'd said it—_"Eren"_—over and over again, without realizing the damage that it caused him. It was like being renamed, like only she was capable of assigning his newfound identity. Because that was it, you see. That was the last thing she'd ever said to him before disappearing. His own name would haunt him for years for that same reason, because it carries the presence of her.

Then, it hits him: That's the last thing... but also the first. When she'd seen him again that night, his name was the first thing to pour out of her lips, to spill out through her smile. Eren. _Eren._

"_I love you, Eren."_

He scoffs, laughing stupidly to himself and running a hand through his messy hair.

He can still see her eyes, wide and round, startled as he drapes his coat around her. He can still smell her scent, even if it wasn't hers entirely. He can still hear her talking and remember... how he'd felt so damn _alive_. For the first time in a very long time, something has breathed life into him. His eyes flicker down to his hand, staring at the pen for a moment. Then, a single white flake lands atop his outstretched palm, just above the ugly scar that mars it. He looks up, hardly believing the very sight before his eyes.

It's snowing.

He scoffs, shaking his head, then stops just by the edge of a sidewalk, waiting for permission to cross the street. There aren't many cars out in the night, but the sign at the end of the crossroad flashes a red hand for 'stop'.

He looks up at the traffic light, and even though there are no cars waiting by, he stands in place and waits as it flashes…

_Green._

He doesn't move. He doesn't want to. Mikasa's laughter still rings inside his ears. Her hand still fills his palm. Her red dress still glows, purely, right before his eyes.

The girl. He sees her. He sees her even though she's no longer there.

Eren hears the Christmas music all around him, and it's soft. Beautiful. Something cracks open within him, something bursts to life anew. He appreciates the world around him as if he were experiencing it for the very first time, the almost-six-years he's spent becoming familiar with the city suddenly disintegrate to nothing, and he's re-discovering the world through the lenses of new eyes.

He tucks her pen into his pocket, watching as small flakes of snow float down from the sky. The wind is gentle, and it carries a whisper…

Her voice, eliciting his name.

It only takes a few more minutes, but he doesn't mind the pointless wait. Because, eventually, the red hand disappears and the pedestrian sign lights up in its place to indicate:

_Go._


	3. Hello, Stranger

**A/N:** I was so tempted to title this chapter 'Hickeys and Ass-Throbbing Wedgies' but then I was like,_ naaahhh_. Coming next chapter, notice the distinct difference between how Eren sees Mikasa, and how Mikasa sees herself. It plays a key role in this story. Also, Mikasa hardly ever curses here but I imagine she's secretly a potty mouth in her head (that may just be a guilty headcanon of mine tho *shrugs*)

I'm always up for answering any questions/comments you may have so PM/Tumblr me if anything. My tumblr username is **natiwati**. Also, don't forget to leave a review! They fill my heart with glee and really help push the story forward.

**PS:** Eren's apartment number is Mikasa's birthday (February 10th)

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _Hello, Stranger_ :.

.: Chapter III :.

* * *

Everything feels as if lost in a haze, lately, stolen by a dense, lifeless blur. The days roll by with a monotonous groan, lugging the heavy burden of time as if each second weighed too much for the sun to carry. It rises, shines, dwindles and fades only to make room for a moon as unanimated as its partner. Nights and days are all the same. Long. Stale. Vacant.

Mikasa sighs in her sleep, eyes buried under lids locked shut by the weight of slumber. They remain this way even as her fiancé stirs awake beside her. Even as he rises from their bed to traipse over to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, brush his teeth, take a brisk shower. They miss the way he coats his fingers in gel and rakes them through his hair, how the towel hangs low around his hips and falls to his feet as he clothes himself. He buttons up his shirt, fixes a plaid tie around his neck, buckles his belt and ties his shoelaces, all tasks Mikasa would normally help him with—but not today. She's far too tired. Too worn. Stretched thin by the events of the previous nights.

A tender kiss on her chin awakens her. It smells of hair gel and aftershave. The wet stamp it leaves glimmering on her skin screams of his absence, for she hears him breeze through their apartment too soon for her to call after him, the heels of his shoes clacking all the way to the front door that shuts a tad too loudly, a bang that frightens all remnants of sleep away. In his haste, Jean must've forgotten she was sleeping.

With a sigh, Mikasa's eyes come alive. She blinks up at the ceiling above her, a hand rustling the white bedsheets as it slides up to touch the spot beside her where her fiancé had been only moments before, the sheets still warm where he'd slept. The bed creaks beneath her as she rolls onto her side her hand lingering on the unoccupied space for a while, dwelling in his absence, her eyes gazing sleepily across the room to stare out at the city through a gap between the cream-colored curtains. The world is white outside. Snow rains down from the sky like tiny balls of foam spilling down from the heavens.

She closes her eyes, breathing out through her nostrils, hating herself for expecting this day to be any different from the rest. Because, of course, Jean has to go to work.

On a Sunday.

_Baby, you know I have to go no matter what,_ he always tells her when she protests. _But we'll go out and get something to eat when I get back, okay? How does that sound?_

Marvelous. It's not like she ever had it in her to protest any further after that.

She stares at the falling snow until her vision blurs and goes unfocused. Morning light spills in through the pale curtains, reigning over their spacious bedroom with the sovereignty of a new day. Her eyes, still heavy, trail idly upwards to peer at the boring spectacle that is their ceiling.

Sundays. Mikasa quite loathes Sundays, really. There's nothing ever to do. And it doesn't help that their apartment is so damn huge. The vastness of it taunts her, suggesting her fiancé's absence, the endless possibilities that lie ahead. With him not here, the day is all hers. Yet she feels lost as to what to do to fill in the spaces she must live in without him. What is she, if not his soon-to-be-wife? What is she, if not a successful businessman's fianceé?

Suddenly, a chirpy little voice croons inside her head, bouncing off the walls of her cranium like an irritating bouncy ball. "_Jeaaaaaaaaaaaan-bo,"_ it croons. She realizes—with an involuntary cringe—that the voice belongs to her mother-in-law. It disrupts even the faintest slither of silence with its shrilling, nails-dragging-down-a-chalkboard whine: "_Jeeeaaaan-bo, your fiancée—she's so beautiful! It's such a shame she doesn't talk or smile more. Pretty girls like her should know to smile more often!"_

Mikasa frowns at the memory. Those were her exact words too.

"_Mom," _her fiancé had protested, giving his intoxicated mother a gentle tug to guide her like of, erm, staggering. "_Please, Mom, she does smile. Like, all the time."_

"_Well, I don't ever see her doing it! You should help her break out of her shell, Jean." _

"'_Kay, Mom. Whatever you say."_

"_I'm serious! She needs to talk more—or at least smile a little! It frustrates me, quite frankly. It's such a pity! Nobody likes a girl so serious."_

Ugh.

Overhearing Jean's mother spit blatant criticisms about her was such a regular, day-to-day occasion that Mikasa wondered why she ever felt the least bit affected by them. She should be used to her banters by now. But they still got to her, anyway. They always did, somehow.

The conversation had occurred just two weeks prior, whilst she waited patiently outside Sina Plaza Hotel on the night of her engagement party for Jean to finish stuffing his mom inside a taxicab, his gentle pushes and benign shove soon resorting to defeated sighs of exasperation as his clearly-had-a-little-too-much-to-drink mother rebuffed his attempts to get her inside.

Her words were only alcohol induced, so she didn't really mean them—at least, that's what Jean had tried convincing Mikasa later on that night when she very casually (not that casually) alluded (more like proclaimed) to the fact that his mother had been squawking not-so-pleasant remarks about her all night long without the slightest hint of modesty.

"_She was just drunk, babe. Ignore her. I'm sure she didn't mean a word of it at all."_

Of course she didn't. She probably didn't mean the plethora of comments she'd spat under her breath since the day they'd first met either, calling her this name and that, disgracing her with subtle side glances and the occasional blatant roll of her eyes. Anti-social. Humorless. Odd, quiet little girl. "_How could my son ever be in love with a woman like that?" _And the best part always came right after, when she would turn and, unremittingly, flash Mikasa a smile so grand and genuine that she found herself doubting her own eyes. She was a damn illusionist, that woman. One second, a smile bearing all the sincerity in the world would flash on her botoxed face before, in the flicker of a second, it would vanish before her very eyes, replaced by a scowl, a scornful twist of her plump lips that left Mikasa wondering if she'd merely imagined it.

But still, Mikasa wasn't stupid. She knew very well that nobody in his family, or even social group for that matter, particularly doted on her. Because, well…

Nobody likes a girl so serious.

Little do they know, Mikasa had thought then that she'd actually smiled and laughed a whole damn lot that night. Countless of times, actually. Just not with them.

So she'd focused all her attention on the snowflakes that had begun to dance around her, enveloping her, protecting her from her surroundings. A hand had reached up to clutch the scarf around her neck absently, the way it sometimes did when she was lost in thought. And suddenly Jean's mother didn't bother her anymore, for the events of the night replayed and replayed in her mind like the twirls of a fervent dancer, swirling and whirling and beginning again.

She squints her eyes at the ceiling, gauging how much time has passed since then. Has it really been two whole weeks now? Really? Two?

She sighs, her body sinking into the mattress. Rolling onto her back, she thinks of how time sure does go by fast.

So, two whole weeks, huh? That's how long it's been since she last saw Eren, then…

Eren.

Instantly, Mikasa slaps a hand across her mouth, covering the smile that nearly breaks her stoic expression like a dangerous secret about to be exposed—as if there's anyone even there to see her. She squeezes her eyes shut, a long squeal muffled by her palm, legs thrashing about and body squirming on the bed like a hyperactive child.

Jesus. She's going nuts.

So much has changed since she last saw him, even though it's only been two weeks. She's started noticing some new things since then, thing's that would've normally escaped her. Like how Jean's body wash has a smell very similar to the redolent Old Spice that had tinged Eren's coat. She'd even noticed it that same night too! They were in the shower together after making it home and she went to rub the blue liquid onto his back, nearly slapping herself across the face when what sprang into her mind was an image of the green-eyed, long-haired, stubbly-faced tannish boy of her past instead of the man standing naked right in front of her. Ugh. Talk about distress.

She's also started noticing the smell of chocolate more now too, as silly as that sounds, ever since her taste buds rediscovered her long-lost addiction after going "clean" for so long. Everywhere she goes, if there's chocolate anywhere within a ten-foot radius, she can detect it. And it always makes her think of Eren. Always. God.

It's all his fault.

Ever since she last saw him, her senses have been more alert, occasionally discovering new things she's hardly cared enough to notice countless times before. And not only has she come to rediscover her surroundings, she's learned new things about herself too.

Like how she's actually a pretty bad fucking liar.

"_What took you so long? I was starting to get worried," _Jean had said, or rather, slurred to her that night when she'd made it back to him, a whiff of alcohol tingeing his breath.

"_A friend," _she'd gushed without even thinking. "_I ran into someone."_

And by the "_Oh?" _that he had given her and the clumsy way in which his eyebrows raised, she knew he wanted further explanation.

"_A friend of yours,"_ she'd lied, and never had a few set of words ever made her feel so dirty as this: "_We talked about the wedding. They were so kind. I can't remember their name, though. You know how bad I am with names."_

That was the first time Mikasa ever lied to him.

The second time came right after, when he'd opened his mouth to ask, "_Which friend?" _and she'd lunged forward and stolen a kiss from him in such a spontaneous and rare public display of affection that she had him smiling groggily against her lips for some time. He must've forgotten what they were talking about after that, because he didn't bother questioning her further.

But then he's sighed happily, catching her face in his hands, a shadow of confusion crossing his features. "_Chocolate. Why do you taste like chocolate?"_

And that's when Mikasa had sputtered her second lie: "_Chapstick."_

If she thought about it long enough, she kind of felt bad for lying to him. But it's not like she could've just said the truth, right? It's not that simple. She couldn't just confess that she'd escaped their own damned engagement party and left him to roam alone in a huge city, running into an ex-lover in the process and spending time with him at a french cafe where she broke a sacred rule and actually fed herself chocolate—oh, God. No. No. Just the idea of it sounds damn horrific. Jean would not have been too pleased to hear that. So, naturally, lying was her best and only option.

_Yeah, yeah, yeah, _a different voice chirps within her, and she realizes it's actually her own this time. _You haven't even married the poor guy yet and already you are lying to him._

"Oh, shut up," she says aloud, rolling over to the middle of the gigantic, king-sized bed.

Great. Now she's talking to herself.

She hears a faint purring coming from the kitchen. It's their cat, Jiji. Not only did she name him that because his fur is black as charcoal and his face is usually settled in a rather caustic expression that reminds her of Kiki's pet cat in the movie _Kiki's Delivery Service, _but also because she thinks that Mr. Pringles is a pretty stupid name to give a cat. Just… no. You do not name a cat Mr. Pringles, no matter how many tubes of Pringles need to be unscrewed from around his head. One of these days, Jiji's gonna get his head stuck in one of those darned tubes and when they're forced to take him to the vet, the doctors are going to ask them for their cat's name and if so much as a single breath is inhaled and the name "Mr. Pringles" starts to form around Jean's lips, Mikasa's going to karate chop him on the side of the neck and knock him down unconscious.

He's a pretty dumb cat, that Jiji. But she likes him. He's always there to keep her company, even if her hardly ever glances her way. She can't be bothered to move just yet though, so she pores over the ceiling, thinking that two more purrs, two more purrs and then she'll feed him.

How long has she gone without moving? She's not sure. Her arms and legs spread out at her sides so that she's splayed open on the center of the bed like a child about to make a snow angel. A few more drowsy blinks later, and the vestiges of slumber finally desert her. She's wide awake now, staring at the ceiling with renewed intent.

Maybe, just maybe, if she stays very, very still, motivation will come to her.

But then Jiji meows, and Mikasa sighs, ignoring him. One more. One more meow and then she'll move.

Now that she thinks about it, it turns out that her bra wasn't actually a good place to hide Eren's address. What a splendid thing to notice right before your horny fiance decides he wants to take you to bed, right?

You see, she'd thought it a pretty clever hiding spot back then, when she'd had her mild meltdown at the elevator. But then came saying goodbye to all the guests, and cleaning up after the party, and stuffing Jean's drunken mother into a taxi cab. Inevitably, sooner or later, would come the time to go back home. What she hadn't anticipated was that perhaps her fiance—whom she's been with for some time now and knows so damnably, perfectly well—might want to… oh, you know. Have sex?

Yeah. "Fuck," pretty much sums up Mikasa's thoughts back then.

In her vague and somewhat limited experience, she's come to understand that there are five types of drunks in this world: the happy drunks, the sad drunks, the angry drunks, the philosophical drunks, and the horny drunks.

Her fiance is the horny kind of drunk.

That night, she hadn't expected it. She'd assumed he'd be too tired, what with his blabbering state and all, maybe he might've just wanted to go home and rest… sleep off a potential hangover? But no. Oh, no. He had other plans in mind, apparently.

His hands had startled her, gripping her waist so tightly and out of the blue that she only had a second to catch her breath before, looking back at his reflection in the mirror in front of her, she told him that he'd frightened her. He responded by whispering apologies into her hair, swaying slightly on his feet. From the mirror, she could see that his eyes were closed above her head, the rest of his face buried into her hair as he inhaled her. Despite herself, Mikasa smiled.

She'd continued to relieve her ears of her diamond earrings, carefully removing all her jewelry before placing it inside the humble little jewelry box her friend Aemin made her as a Christmas present many years ago, when she heard his sleepy, imperceptible voice murmuring behind her, "'_Kasa."_

She'd laughed, asked him what he wanted.

Then he'd gone on to tell her how beautiful she looked, how lucky he felt to have her, how happy he was that in a few short months she would finally be his and blah blah blah blah and so forth—all the while his hands roved all over her dress, working up and down her sides, bunching the skirt in his hands like he'd wanted it to vanish. He pressed a kiss to the exposed skin of her neck, then to the first small bump of bone peeking out from her spine just above the neckline. She's shuddered a little too, and he's just kept murmuring nonsense she couldn't understand into her skin, which tickled.

She'd turned around to face him, giggling, ready to retaliate, when suddenly he'd plunged forth and caught her mouth in his without warning. It's pretty obvious what went on after that, so just use your imagination.

Eventually, though, his hands grew bored of framing her ass and waist, running out of feasible ways to get the dress off her. His clouded, drunken mind cleared with the light on an idea, apparently, and soon his clumsy fingers were fumbling for the zipper behind her back. A triumphant little sound rumbled in his throat when he found it, and then she felt him tugging at it a few times before gliding it down to unzip her.

Hands to his chest, Mikasa had implored him to continue, briefly wondering how long they'd gone without burning quite as hot as this. The cool air of their room has begun to nip at the newly exposed skin of her back, Jean's one hand struggling to unhook her bra clasp, the other roaming over her chest in a quest to anchor itself on one of her breasts when suddenly—

Her eyes shot wide open.

She gasped.

Remembered.

_Eren's address is on my friggin' boob!_

She'd pushed Jean away, told him to meet her in the shower, and sprang to hide the small piece of paper in a safe area as if it would dissipate into smoke if she wasn't quick enough. That entire night—since the moment she'd run into Eren—had turned itself violently askew, snapping off the hinges and hanging upside down. Ever since then, ever since him, nothing's been quite the same. There's a stain now, a mark, a subtle tinge of him lingering around everywhere, demanding to be seen, to be felt.

And she hasn't seen him in two whole weeks. By her choice, might we add.

Her eyes fall to the clock by the bed. It's 7:45 am now. Slowly, she trails her gaze over to the dresser where the crumpled piece of paper bearing Eren's address still resides, hidden safely under a bunch of useless notebooks she uses to fill the top drawer she doesn't own enough clothing to fill herself.

It lies untouched. Still untouched.

_What if —_

Jiji gives his third meow before even a fragment of a thought can fully develop. Mikasa finally capitulates with a tired groan/sigh.

"Hold up, Jiji," she moans, working her limbs free of the demonic linen-sheets mess she's worked herself into. She hauls her body up to sit on the edge of the bed, letting out the most disgruntled, garbled sound of pleasure as she stretches her arms above her head and all sorts of bones click and pop up and down her back.

Jiji gives another meow. Louder, more demanding.

"God," she breathes, clomping over to the kitchen. Tragically enough, half her underwear seems to have wedged itself between her butt cheeks, baring half of a cheek and giving her the most unpleasant of wedgies—which she pulls, like the refined lady that she is, with an exasperated sigh; the elastic band snapping back to her skin with a sharp snap. The noise must've startled little Jiji, for he spurs and dashes across the kitchen in alarm. He's a very nervous cat, which Mikasa always finds a bit amusing.

He springs across the kitchen floor to where she's walking: smoothing down her half-rolled-up tank top, rubbing her eyes with her fists, yawning as if she hasn't slept in thirty years (and probably looking like it too). She almost trips over the poor creature when he slithers in between her feet, gliding his soft fur over her skin almost sensually. "Jiji, please," she hisses. "Stop it."

The cat just fucking purrs.

She plucks out a can of cat food from inside one of the kitchen cabinets, pulling back the tab to peel the thin metal lid open before scraping out the smelly gunk onto a small plate with a spoon. Jiji's slithering between her feet again, purring in utter delight. Little asshole.

"Here," she says, setting down the plate on the floor before him. Immediately, Jiji starts nibbling off his food, which actually surprises her. That's a first. He must've been famished. Did Jean forget to feed him last night?

She crouches down, crossing her arms over her knees, deciding that she'll watch him. Truly, it's not like she has anything better to do.

After a long while of staring mindlessly at Jiji, Mikasa spaces out, her gaze trailing over to the view past the sliding doors leading to the spacious balcony. Snow's still falling, which she admires quietly, wondering if Eren has a place like this. What's the view like from where he's living? Does the city seem to him the same way it seems to her?

Suddenly, her phone rings. On cue, she's scrambling to her feet and sprinting across the apartment to the bedroom with such vehement speed that Jiji bolts away from his food in fright.

She hurls herself onto the bed, clambering for her cell phone and snatching it into her hands. Without even bothering to check the caller ID, she answers, slightly out of breath. "Hello? He... Hello?"

Nobody responds.

She pants, bringing the phone to her face to peer down at it. The message on the screen reads:

**Missed Call:**

**Hubby**

She's rushing to to call him back, her heart practically beating out of her chest as she's nearly doing it—but then, suddenly, a text message chimes in.

It's from him.

**Hi baby. Sorry if I woke you up. Look I'm gonna be back late tonight so don't bother waiting for me. There's leftovers in the fridge from yesterday. Order take out if you want. I left the credit card on the kitchen counter jic so knock urself out. Call u when my meeting's over k?**

She narrows her eyes, a frown digging creases into the skin between her eyebrows. She's just about to re-read the entire message when her phone does that weird bloop noise it always makes when a new text bubble pops into the screen. She runs her eyes over the message.

**See u tonight**

A third text bloops in right after that.

**Love you**

Mikasa really hates Sundays.

**—o—**

Two hours later, and she's meticulously unfolding and refolding her clothes.

She's already scrubbed every inch of the bathroom tiles, washed the kitchen counters, rearranged the contents of the fridge and vacuumed just about every damn fiber off the carpets and still she cannot seem to calm the hissing torrent of her turbulent thoughts. They rage inside her, her cool and calm exposure an utter contradiction to the storm that boils within.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, __**stupid**_, she calls herself, each new "stupid" stronger than the last. _Why do you always expect more than what you can have? Why do you always set yourself up for disappointment?_

Why? Why, why, _whywhywhywhy?_

Jiji's lounging on the bed atop her pillow, staring at her with his condescending, beady eyes. He meows.

"Not now, Jiji," she grumbles, wiping off the sweat beading on her forehead with a quick sweep of her hand. _I just can't believe him!_ And really, truly, she can't.

After he'd promised to do something tonight—anything. It doesn't even have to be anything extravagant, just sitting together in the same room staring at each other would've been fine for crying out loud. But just... nothing! He's done this to her so many times before, she doesn't even know how she's remotely hurt by it.

But it's just frustrating. It's just really damn frustrating. Why does he always have to be at work?

Mikasa shakes her head. She's probably making far too big a deal out of this. Jean would even say so too. She needs to calm down. Just calm down, Mikasa. Breathe.

She retrieves a short tower of folded clothes to stash it back inside the drawers when, her mind still jumbled up in chaos, she ends up opening the wrong drawer instead. She finds herself stalling, genuinely surprised by the contents held within, peering down at them with hollow eyes.

It's all just a bunch of old notebooks. Most of them not even hers, but actually Armin's.

And hidden beneath one of them, is Eren's little note.

Her hand, still clenched around the knob to pull the drawer open, tightens. She feels a tingle slither down her spine—adrenaline.

Quickly, her eyes flicker upwards to meet her own reflection in the mirror. Her face, still fresh and untouched by makeup, bears the purest resemblance of her. It nearly appalls her how much she reminds herself of her own mother. Save for, well, the scar below her eye, she's a painful spitting image of her.

She closes her eyes. No. Don't think about her. Don't think about anything at all.

After a few deep breaths, Mikasa opens her eyes again, gazing at her own reflection. And she hardly recognizes herself. This girl, still in just panties and a tank top, with a new chip on her manicured nails and her hair still in utter disarray... _Is this really me?_

She squints, scowling, and brings a hand to her cheek. The tips of her fingers feel cold against the surface of her clammy skin. The once-flawless paint of her manicure—which she's ruined with her recent bout of cleaning—has chipped off at the edges, the natural pigment of her nails rebelling past the artificial confinement. She swears she can see dark circles ring around her eyes, her skin pale and blotchy, her fingers bony and inexplicably thin. And it's not just her fingers that look like that, the rest of her looks just as alarmingly knobby to her as well. The white tank top she still hasn't changed out of hugs her torso rather loosely, and—Christ, she looks like a limp noodle. It's so strange. So painfully unlike her. Her hip bones poke out from underneath her skin, her collarbones and shoulders so sharp and punctuated that she catches herself gaping at them for a while in disbelief. Her unruly hair falls past her shoulders, ending just below the peaks of her breasts, a length that Jean very much appreciates. And how could he… how could _anyone _find her beautiful? When was it, exactly, that she became… this?

Finally, she meets her own gaze in the mirror.

And that is when she's taken aback the most.

Her eyes, as dark and empty as voids, taunt her. She can't fathom why Jean would ever praise their beauty the way he always does. Why? Why does he? She's so... She's just so...

Empty.

Fretting over a man, cleaning up an apartment by all herself for no particular reason, not a single text from friends or loved ones buzzing her phone—nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Is this really her life?

Sadness fills the voids in her eyes, poison seeping into vials far too small to contain it. A thought flows forth from her mind, unbidden, bleeding out like sap oozing from a tree. It's simple. The truth is very, very simple.

_I'm lonely._

Mikasa's lonely.

She feels something split open in her chest, and the feeling is so alarmingly familiar that she sucks in a deep breath, forcing all her intent and energy into calming herself. Before the emotions can begin to overflow, before tears can even start to burn and bead over her eyes, Mikasa takes a deep breath—however shaky it may be—and stops herself.

No. She will not cry. Not now, not ever. She knows better than to let her emotions get the best of her. They seldom ever have.

And then, like a dying flame, light seems to escape the very contours of her face, all traces of emotion vanishing from her features right before her eyes. She doesn't even see herself anymore. She doesn't even see her mother. She sees nothing, feels nothing, and it's an emptiness she's grown very accustomed to. An emptiness that's comfortable to live in. It lingers, stays. Persistent. Persistent. It never goes away.

Without sparing another glance at the opened drawer, she snaps it shut with all the force of a hurricane, the loud pang of wood banging against the frame resonating through the apartment like a thunderclap splitting through the clouds.

**—o—**

The entire apartment is clean now. There's not a single speck of dust in sight.

Mikasa stands with her hands perched on her hips amid the center of the living room, and, with another wedgie underway, she peruses her surroundings. "What do you think, Jiji?" she asks, turning around to look at him.

He's nowhere to be found.

She sighs. "You too, huh?"

**—o—**

That's it. She can't take it any more.

She's doing it.

After a long, hot shower and some breakfast, Mikasa decides it's best to get herself out of the apartment. God knows dangerous things happen when she's left alone inside it for too long (i.e. dangerously spotless floors that make your socks slip when you walk over them). Before leaving, she makes sure to retrieve three vital things:

One, her purse (for obvious reasons).

Two, the credit card Jean left on the counter (for revenge).

And—she'll have a hard time explaining this to herself later but—three, Eren's address. Because it can't hurt…

Right?

**—o—**

The city is clothed in white with snow that rains down in thick flakes that linger for a moment before melting into Mikasa's clothes. Her breath fogs with every exhale, hands trembling slightly at her sides. Whether they shake from the cold or from nerves, she does not know. She balls the tightly into fists, taking in a steady, icy gulp of air to calm herself before finally looking up. A tall, wooden door stands grandly before her, only an arm's-length away. She shudders.

The number on the door reads 210, embellished in golden text.

Her eyes pull down to stare at the note in her hand. Snowflakes fall around the paper, melting into her glove. She briefly wonders if now is really the best time to come pay Eren a visit. It's snowing, there's not many people out to begin with, it's four days away from Christmas and the snow has hushed the bustling city life into a calm, eerie whisper. Most folks have opted to stay inside, yet here she is. Brave? Stupid? Both.

It takes a second attempt at reading the address for her brain to processes the entirety of the words.

_210 Maria St. apt 210c_

She sighs. This is it.

Her eyes land on the row of buzzers on the thick casing of the door. Three small rectangles bearing each of the inhabitants' last names are written down by hand, one on top of the other. She scans each of the names carefully.

_Dreyse_

_Blouse _

And finally—her breath catches slightly when she sees it—comes the name written in a handwriting identical to the one on the paper she holds in her grasp: _Jaeger._

Mikasa balks. Her hand hangs suspended in the air where she stopped herself mid-way of reaching out to press the button by his name. Should she even be doing this? Is now even the right time? Her mind is teeming with all sorts of worrisome questions. What if he's not home? What if he doesn't even want to see me? What if—

Okay, stop it, Mikasa. Stop it. Just press the damn button. What better do you have to do, anyway? Go home? Wallow in your misery while Jean stays all day at work? Go talk to Jiji? Who is, by the way, your only fucking friend.

No.

Press the button.

Her hand moves on its own. Mikasa's not even sure of what's possessing her, but it's as if someone else is moving her body for her. She bites her lip, the tip of her finger pressing against the surface of the tiny button until—

_Brrraaaaaap!_

Jesus Lord, that thing is loud. Mikasa nearly jumps ten feet into the air from the startle. A few seconds go by in silence after that and she fiddles with some loose strands of her hair, anticipating the sound of Eren's voice breaking out from the speaker, her heart pounding in her throat, the latch of the door clicking as he turns the knob to open it, his green eyes growing wide at the sight of her.

But then a whole minute goes by.

And nothing happens.

Mikasa smooths a lock of hair behind her ear, licking her slightly chapped lips and shivering from the cold. If Eren doesn't answer soon, she's going to turn into a frigging snowman out here. She bites her lip again, pushing down on the buzzer and holding it for a moment longer, just in case.

_BRRRRAAAAAAAAP!_

Jesus. Why not alarm the whole damn city that she's here?

Suddenly, the latch clicks and the door pries open just a sliver. Mikasa straightens, her body perking up and the heels of her boots clicking together in excitement. But then…

Nothing… happens?

She frowns, confused. "Hello?" she calls out, but the door is completely still, merely hanging ajar. Huh. That's not very inviting. She dips her head to peek inside through the sliver of space between the jamb and the door.

There's no one there.

Mikasa swallows. What the heck? Is the buzzer broken? Is there some new, high-tech device that allows people to open doors without being there to answer them themselves that she's not aware of?

She looks around at all of her surroundings. People stroll about the city without paying her any mind, and snow has begun to accumulate at the tips of her expensive leather boots. She takes a deep breath, and before she can even process what she is doing, her hand is pushing hard against the dark wood of the door. The hinges creak slightly as she pushes it open, peeking her head inside ever-so-carefully and voicing aloud another soft and tentative, "Hello?"

There's not a single soul in sight. As soon as she enters the front door, she's faced with a narrow hallway and a staircase leading up to the second floor. On the one side, a wall stretches far back to a white door with the number **210A **on it. That must be the first apartment. She looks down at the note in her hand. **210c.** Eren is **210C**.

Slowly, Mikasa makes her way up the stairs, the noise her heeled footsteps emit bouncing off the white cement walls. She wishes she could hush her own feet, dissolve any sound she makes into the air, for she feels like an intruder.

This doesn't stop her though. Once she climbs the flight of stairs, she is met with a wider, more spacious hallway. Two doors lie adjacent to one another on opposite sides of the walls. A wide, tall window serves as the only sustenance of light between them, save for the flickering light bulb that hangs naked from the ceiling above. She runs her gaze over the wall closest to her on her left. That apartment door is **210B**.

Mikasa swallows. This means—this can only mean…

**210C**. Eren's apartment. Right there. Beside her. Just a few steps away.

As she makes her way towards his door, Mikasa momentarily debates if she should be here. It's not like anyone even answered the door. She sort of just… went in. She's not allowed much train of thought though, for her fist is already clenched, her breath held tight inside her lungs, and she raps, twice, on the fading wood of Eren's apartment door.

She purses her lips tightly, holding her purse in front of her legs with clenched, trembling fists. It's just the cold, she tells herself. She's not really nervous. Psssh. Not at all.

But then, the most daunting thing occurs. History repeats itself.

Nothing. Happens.

Nothing at all!

Mikasa sighs, knocking on the door twice more, only louder this time. If he doesn't answer, then he's not home. That's okay. That's perfect, really. That way she'll just get to go home, resume her day as if nothing ever happened. There's no saying she didn't try, at least.

But her heart sinks at the thought. She's almost surprised by herself. Really? Was she really looking forward to seeing him that much?

Enough time standing in silence passes that Mikasa's genuinely convinced there's no one home. She nods solemnly to herself, almost as if to say see? I told you so. The tiny flutters of nerves inside her gut die out, and she is left with the smoldering ashes of flames that burned fiercely only some short seconds ago. She starts, and is just about to turn on her heels when suddenly—

The door flies open.

Mikasa's heart practically stops.

Right there, in front of her, stands, not Eren Jaeger, but a girl—no. Scratch that. A woman. With shaggy, light-brown hair that Mikasa imagines must be just about chin-length if it weren't all swept carelessly to the side and actually hung down in it's natural state. She's got an austere, amber gaze that pierces through Mikasa with sharp daggers of downright cavalier judgment, an askew smile decorating the smooth curvature of her lips with what suggests uncouth apathy or... is that—_is she mocking me?_

To make matters worse, Mikasa's eyes finally flutter south.

She audibly gulps at the woman's presently state.

She's naked! Well, save for a half-buttoned-up over-sized men's shirt and a whole bunch of hickeys around her neck, there seem to be no other additions lading the woman's smooth, rosy skin. And the hickeys. Good God, they are everywhere. Mikasa practically feels herself turn a bright shade of pink at the sight of them.

She parts her lips to speak, but Mrs. I-Just-Got-Laid-Last-Night beats her to it.

"Who are you?" comes her high-pitched, caustic tone, and it's honestly dreadful. Mikasa tries not to choke on her own spit.

"O-oh, I'm... Ah, I just— I'm sorry. I must have the wrong place? I thought I had it correctly but—"

"What's your name?"

Mikasa blinks, taken aback by her question. "Um..."

"What? You don't know your own name?"

Jesus Christ. She feels her temple throb with annoyance, practically gritting out between her teeth, "Please excuse me. I must have the wrong address. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Have a nice day."

The woman just shrugs nonchalantly and mutters, "Whatever" as Mikasa tears her eyes from the lewd hickeys splayed across her skin, turning to walk away when—

"Hitch."

She stops.

"Who is it?"

Oh. My. God.

It's Eren!

Mikasa freezes stiff. Her stomach churns at the sound of his voice, the smoldering ashes of nerves that had died out just seconds ago bursting back to life, burning her. Quickly, she whips around to face the door again and is immediately met with a set of wide, startling teal-green eyes.

It's him.

"Oh, my God," he breathes.

Mikasa can only imagine her own expression. She hopes her cheeks aren't flaring bright, cherry red, because her entire face feels like it's suddenly on fire. She opens her mouth to speak, barely sputtering out a squeaky and slightly breathless, "Hi, Eren."

He just blinks at her, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. The startled expression leaves him soon though, as if he were actually expecting her to show up all along. He genuinely smiles, the smug bastard. He smiles.

"How did you...?" he half-queries before his brain apparently falters. His jaw hangs a bit slack and his mouth stays agape from where he'd failed to finish voicing his question.

Mikasa just shrugs. She just shrugs. She can't speak. God, she can't even fucking breathe right now.

Eren squints his eyes at her for a millisecond before looking at the half-naked girl beside him, staring at her as if exchanging a few telepathic words.

Mikasa sucks in a deep breath, closing her eyes, pretending not to see the evidence of what could not be any more fucking unpleasant standing right before her (Eren's hair poking out in all sorts of directions. His taut, tan body as he, too, is practically naked, save for the sweatpants that hang low upon his hips. The scars—and she doesn't remember them being this many—across the skin of his chest and stomach). Her mind whirls and sprints at about a thousand miles per hour. Oh, God. Oh, God. Each second grows more desperately uncomfortable than the first.

Eren's surprisingly calm and composed voice snaps the chain of her thoughts though, when he cheerfully comments, "Mikasa. It's so good to see you."

"Oh," she heaves, opening her eyes, practically melting into the shell of her own skeleton from the embarrassment, saying, "I'm sorry. Now's clearly not a good time. I'll just—"

"Nonononono!" Eren interrupts, waving his hands hastily in reassurance and making the girl—Hitch?—next to him give him a catty, sideways glance. "It's alright just"—he shoots her a glare, practically burning holes into her bitchy expression—"hold on a second."

And with that, the door is being slammed shut right in Mikasa's face.

She hears the hush-hush whispers of both of them behind the door, the woman's ill-tempered tone raising occasionally in anger before lowering an octave to form what sounds like a needy, whiny coo. Then she hears a loud _thump! _which makes her jump and slightly fear for Eren's life. There's more ruckus, then silence, and Mikasa is left to stare out helplessly at an inconsolable shade of fading white and a slightly chipped **210C** as her mind wanders off into the distance, regret and worry alike clamoring inside her head with loud, discordant clangs that boom: _See? I told you so._

Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.


	4. How Does One Breathe, Again?

**A/N:** First of all, thank you all for all the lovely feedback from last chapter! It means so much and I seriously squeal like a baby pig whenever I read them. You're all so kind omg (now pls leave some more herr hurr). And like I mentioned, it will be a while until I update again, so if you have any questions, please PM me or talk to me on my tumblr.

**PS:** Mikasa and Eren think a lot alike. How some paragraphs and words get repeated between them and such... it's all done on purpose to show that there is still some sort of connection between them, even after all this time. But more on that later.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _How Does One Breathe, Again?_ :.

.: Chapter IV :.

* * *

"Get out."

"What!?"

"You need to leave," Eren exhorts, clutching Hitch's shoulders firmly in his hands. "Now."

"But—" She's hardly done speaking before he's turning to scramble frantically through his apartment in search for something. A hot surge of anger bubbles to her face, turning her cheeks ruddy. Eren's not looking at her to see it, but by the tightness in her voice and her rancor-coated hiss of "are you fucking kidding me!?" he's pretty confident she's about to have his balls right now.

"Listen to me," his voice is low, a hushed whisper flung to her across the living room, fearful of breaking through the front door and reaching the girl standing outside. "Hitch. Listen."

_"What?"_ God, if looks could kill. The scowl on her face is fire, her eyes burning like two scorching embers from hell. Eren knows that look. Hitch is about two seconds away from hurling the nearest blunt object in his direction.

"The girl," he hastens, crouching down on the floor to reach under the sofa. "Remember the girl I told you about two weeks ago?"

"Um, no?"

"Hitch," he groans, patting the dusty floor beneath the couch and finding nothing. "The one. The one that's engaged now?"

There's a moment of silence as she watches him clamber to his feet, practically running in circles and flipping furniture over before darting into the bedroom in a quest to find what Hitch supposes is her clothes.

"You mean the girl you ran into the other night?" she drones, running a peevish hand through her hair. "The one you were freaking out about 'cause she's got your scarf or some shit?"

"Shhhh!" Eren edges the door to his room, holding out his hands and motioning for her to quiet down before mouthing, _yeah. That one_.

Hitch gasps.

All traces of anger suddenly vanish from her face, amber eyes growing wide before scrunching up in amusement. "Oh, my God," she chortles, holding a hand to her chest. "Her?"

"Her." He grunts as he falls to his stomach to reach under his bed. "That's the one, Hitch."

"Holy shit!" she beams. Eren rolls his eyes. "No way! That's her? She's here?"

"Yes! Just— please, keep your voice down."

"Sorry, sorry." She peers into the bedroom, smirking at the messy sheets on his bed. "Boy, aren't you one lucky bastard right now."

Eren doesn't reply, instead he rises to his feet to throw a few scattered items across his room. Hitch watches as they fly from one side to the other, recognizing one of them as the washed-out denim jeans he wore last night. "Jesus Christ," she hears him spit under his breath, "where the _hell_ are your clothes?"

She can't help her smile when he appears at the door, nearly panting, staring at her with panic in his eyes, asking _where? Please, where are they?_. She tries not to take _too _much pleasure in his pitiful state, and motions to the kitchen behind her with a cooperative jab of her thumb over her shoulder. The expression on his face goes flat, unamused, so she flashes him a devilish grin, unable to contain herself.

"You know," she chirps as he trots past her, "she's a lot prettier than you made her out to be. It sure is a reeeeal shame that she's engaged now. You're missing out."

"Fuck off."

She laughs. "I'm just saying."

It takes Eren only seconds to find her clothes, shoes and everything. He bunches them up in his hands, then jogs over to her and shoves them hastily into her arms, pleading, "Please, Hitch, quickly."

"I should be angry at you for throwing me out like this," she coos, jutting out her chin in defiance, "but I know"—her fingers ping the waistband of his sweatpants—"that I'll be hearing from you again tonight."

"Ugh." His eyes practically roll to the back of his head. "Hurry up."

Hitch just bites her lip and snickers. Right there, she starts to unbutton herself free from his shirt, shrugging it off her arms before dipping her legs into her jeans and pulling them up without bothering to put on her underwear. Eren's disappeared back into the bedroom, where he's working himself into a clean shirt and probably begging God for all kinds of grace. A mischievous little smirk plays along the curve of her lips as she slips into her now-rumpled blouse, chucking her panties nonchalantly to the side in a place he'll be able to find later. (Just for luck.)

When he comes out, dark green T-shirt merely tugged over his head, she tosses him his shirt, which he catches, throwing her his cell phone in response and saying, "Oh! Take this."

"Wha—?" Hitch's hands scramble for it but they miss. The phone hits the wall by her side with a loud, painful thump. Eren winces at the sound of it.

"Hitch!"

"What the hell?" she raps. "Horrible, horrible fucking aim you got there, boy."

"Take my phone," he's begging, flinging the shirt in his hands to a corner in his room. "Please. Please, I need you to take it."

"Why ever the fuck?"

He opens his mouth to speak but, just as quickly, it clamps shut. Because he does this a few times, he ends up looking like a fish (which Hitch finds kinda funny). A green-eyed, panicky, desperately-in-need-of-shaving fish. Yeah.

"Well... I..." His gaze rolls about the room, all sheepish and whatnot. He runs his fingers through his hair, parting it all to one side with an angry huff as she squints at him, forcing her feet into her shoes.

"What, Eren?"

Finally, he sighs, capitulating. "I… I told her I don't own one."

Hitch straightens, staring at him with the blandest of expressions. Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, eyes squeeze shut, and she lets out a long sigh of exasperation. For a moment, she seems to think, to contemplate his pathetic existence. "And why would you—"

"So that she would come here!" Eren hisses, pointing his fingers to the ground and jabbing them downwards to accentuate his point. "Come on, woman. Help me out."

"Fuck buddies aren't supposed to help each other out," she snarks, retrieving the poor phone from the floor and checking the screen before waving it out to him to show that there's no damage.

"No." He works his arms into the sleeves and rolls the shirt down along his torso. "But friends are."

Hitch guffaws loudly at that. "I never agreed to such terms, buddy."

"Please?"

"No."

_"Hhhhhiiiiittttch!"_

_"Uuuuuuuuuggggghhhh!"_ She pockets his cell phone, shooting him a fiery sideways glance and searing, "You'll owe me for this, Jaeger."

Eren's laugh is breathy, the mixture of a nervous chuckle and a breath of relief. "I'm sure we'll figure something out. Here." He hands her her coat and purse, flashing her that stupid, charming, dazzling smile she hates so much. His eyes are bubbling over with gratitude, and the tiny dimple that flashes by the corner of his mouth makes her wonder if she's ever seen him smile like this before. She narrows her eyes at him when he whispers, "Thank you."

"Whatever," she shrugs in response, granting him that smug, wolfish grin of hers and chiming, "Have fun with your sexy, engaged, totally-out-of-bounds ex-girlfriend."

Eren sighs. "I really hate you sometimes."

"Oh," Hitch smiles, "I try."

Now, they stand before the door, peering at it like a pair of idiots. Eren sucks in a deep breath, then reaches his hand out and rings his fingers around the knob very slowly, very carefully, feeling the cool metal press against his skin, practically thawing in the warmth of his grasp. He hesitates, gaping at his clenched fist dismally, expecting it to burst to pieces or catch fire or something—anything. Just not… this.

Life, suddenly, is too good to be true.

This can't actually be happening to him, can it? Mikasa. Outside. Waiting. Here. To see him. Him. This can't actually be happening.

He hears Hitch chuckling quietly beside him, amused by his expression: the sudden fear in his eyes, the shaky manner in which he draws in a breath and blows it out unevenly, how his shoulders shake at the release of air like a leaf in the wind, clinging to a branch by a stalk too thin to hold it.

He looks… odd. The look of terror certainly doesn't suit him.

"You nervous?" she whispers, a rare tinge of kindness seeping through her voice.

Eren's answer is immediate: "Terrified."

Hitch scoffs. Eren Jaeger, scared. Well, that's a goddamn first.

She gives him a gentle nudge on the ribs, teasing "You'll do fine, Fabio."

Eren takes in another breath.

Right.

The knob turns in his hand. A flicker of worry flashes through his mind then. What if Mikasa's not even there anymore? What if she's left? Maybe she changed her mind in the five minutes it took him to scramble around his apartment and made a run for it? (Please, God, let that not be the case. _Please_.)

His thoughts are interrupted by the clicking of a latch. A millisecond of silence hangs between him and the door, suspended in the air, accompanied by the daunting realization that his entire future is literally standing right outside. Literally. There, only one door swing away, sporting a black coat and an expensive Prada purse—and with his scarf, his, draped gorgeously around her neck, stands The Girl. The Girl. She's there. She's actually fucking there!

_You'll do fine, Fabio._

You'll do fine.

Eren feels his heart hammering wildly in his chest, hoping, praying—for once—that Hitch is right.

**—o—**

The door swings open.

Mikasa jumps.

And holy God in Heaven does she wish she would've made a run for it when she still had the chance. Hitch's eyes are a glaring, brilliant pair of suns, burning holes into her face with a gaze of utter displeasure. Eren, on the other hand, runs an awkward hand through his hair before the corners of his mouth tug downwards to form an upside-down smile. His eyes seem distracted, not really looking at anything in particular. They meet her gaze for the briefest of seconds, but then quickly fleeter downwards to the ground.

Silence.

The silence in the air is painfully uncomfortable, and Hitch's scowl seems to have a noise of its own. Mikasa bites her lip, but before she can open her mouth to speak, the woman's expression morphs into a wide cat-like grin that has her blinking, amazed, unsure of whether she's even seeing right.

And then, just like that, the woman downright _titters_, smiling, laughing, like she knows something. Like _she knows._

Mikasa's brows furrow, and at that exact instant, the smiling lady waltzes past her, through the small corridor, and into the apartment right across from Eren's. She hears the door slamming shut behind her. Boom. A provocatively loud echo that resonates through the entire building and prickles her skin in waves, taunting: _Mikasa, girl, you know you shouldn't be here._

This is when she feels her insides drop.

Oh. Wow. So Eren's screwing his next-door neighbor. How pleasant. Why won't the ground open up and swallow her whole right about now? Mikasa feels every ounce of her body flushing with embarrassment. She almost wants to cover her eyes, to shield herself from the utter humiliation that is this current string of events.

All her previous courage leaves her lips in a long, dreadful sigh, and she realizes, shamefully enough, that she'd been holding in her breath in fear.

"Eren," she gasps suddenly, chundering out a hasty thread of apologies. "I am so sorry. Really, I-I don't even know what I was thinking! I should've—"

"You wanna come inside?" His words catch her off guard, making her eyes widen into a pair of startled, perfectly round orbs. Her long lashes circumscribe the whites around her irises, making them seem ten times bigger than what they already are. A smile digs its way through to Eren's lips as he watches her stammer helplessly, balling her fists so tightly he hears the groan of leather clenching in her gloves.

He kicks the door open with his foot, side-stepping out of the way to grant her access. "It's cold out here," he adds, beckoning for her to enter. "Please."

"Ah... I'm…" Mikasa's voice is too feeble for her liking, so she swallows, attempting to clear the lump burgeoning in her throat. "Alright."

And then, suddenly, it's as if something just... _pulls_ her into his apartment. She's not sure exactly what it is, or exactly why she's here, doing this, but feels good to let go, to relinquish control in this manner. Her feet move forward, almost entirely by themselves, and maybe it's just the curiosity—maybe it's the agonizing loneliness that she's been plagued with for some time—but, slowly, she makes her way into his home, crossing the threshold of his front door and traversing into a world very, very different from her own.

Now look at that.

She did it.

Once inside, Eren closes the door behind her quietly, the latch clicking softly as if it were afraid to make too much noise, afraid that any commotion might break the fragility of her presence there and send her fluttering away.

For a moment, her eyes peruse the her surroundings, and the place screams such a raw presentation of Eren that she almost wants to laugh. Really, just... laugh, because it's all suddenly too funny. It's like she's stepped into a time machine and traveled back in time. Even the air in this place is different. Like it isn't part of this world.

There's a gentle mess of things here and there, books stacked up against walls and even some scattered across the floor. Dust clings to the idle blades of the fan that hangs above from the ceiling. Wine-colored curtains have been wretched carelessly to the sides, revealing windows that play an endless scene of snow that falls and falls and falls, as if endless. The atmosphere in his apartment is still and warm, disconnected from the cold breeze that freezes all life outside with its frigid, icy whispers.

Where she stands, Mikasa can see a spacious living room, in which a large sofa, a coffee table, and an armchair that clearly don't go together stand proudly among the wooden floor. The entire place is splattered with rich, earthy tones. Greens, grays, browns, faint yellows, all that. It makes her own home, a stark display of spotless creams and whites and chrome, feel wholly unfamiliar. There is a warmth in the colors, like if they gave off some sort of comforting, nuzzling heat. Mikasa doesn't really know how to explain it, but they envelope her. They lure her in. The colors, they speak. The entire place does.

She recognizes some of the furniture they owned back in their old home many years ago—and the TV, a big, wide-screen, HD monster of a contraption that Armin's grandfather had given them a long while back as a hand-me-down, makes something tighten painfully in her chest.

So she rips her eyes away from it, peering at the door that hangs ajar on a wall to her left. A sliver of space allows her a peek into his bedroom, where a bed with wildly disheveled sheets resides. Maybe it's just the sudden stillness of the room, or the soft sound of Eren's breathing, but Mikasa's turbulent thoughts simmer down to a stillness led by solemn admiration.

Silence.

This time, it is welcome.

Mikasa suddenly fathoms that this apartment is Eren's own personal little spot in this vast world. This place, with its warm scents and talking colors, is wholly his. Wholly him. His little sanctuary. She realizes, with the soft release of a pent up breath, that it is the complete opposite of her own home. A glaring contradiction. The dusty fan, the books scattered on the floor and stacked against the walls, the discombobulated sheets on his bed and the mismatched furniture; the smell of something different cooking in the air, tingeing every sliver of the apartment with a declaration of… of different. Of new. Of something wholly new and yet entirely familiar.

Like Eren.

Right there, on that bed, goodness knows how many girls he's bedded, freely, unbounded, simply led by the whimsical laws of his very desires. Because that's just him, you see, the Eren she remembers. Impulsive. Not one to delve too deep into anything unless it truly rings his insides with something _more_. And who knows? Perhaps he was even in love once—perhaps he's even in love _right now_, and that is the place where he worships her, whoever the girl may be, with all the fervent affection he so direly possesses. She almost feels dirty at thinking this way, yet the thought is pure. Simply curious. Admirant, even.

Every visible corner around her conveys a shocking resemblance to him, a map to what he's like inside. His untidiness, his blaze, how he talks and how he thinks and even the Persian rug under the coffee table shouts some small declaration of who Eren might be. The entire place—it's him. Him.

She closes her eyes, and the small pocket of stillness within her dissipates, deserting her the way sunlight vanishes from the world as night approaches: slowly, gradually, then suddenly too quick.

Eren is utterly unmoving behind her, standing with his hands stuffed inside his pockets, almost as if he's waiting for her to finish eyeing the place before he's allowed to speak.

Mikasa's baffled by him.

By all this.

How does he do it? Possess such bravery as to let her walk into his own home? She would not have been capable of doing such a thing. That would be like… like ripping her coat wide open and baring herself to him. Like allowing his eyes to pierce right through her and into her very core, to the naked expanses of her inner self she works so hard to keep stored away, safe from the world around her. This is his home. The epitome of all that is Eren. And he just lets her waltz right in here like it's nothing.

How does he do it?

And, most importantly, why?

"So..." comes his voice, and it's soft. She opens her eyes at the sound of it, deep and husky; a calm assurance threaded through every nuance in his tone. "What brings you here?"

A weary breath deflates her lungs.

Well, that's a very good question, Eren Jaeger. She was sort of wondering the same thing.

"I'm, uh..." her throat runs dry, so she tries to swallow, but it doesn't help. "I… um. well… I think… I've..." Oh, fuck it.

"That's alright," Eren offers gently. "I have to give you something anyway."

Mikasa's eyes widen momentarily. Her voice seems to have regained some small fragment of its usual composure when she asks, "You do?"

"Your pen," he smiles. "You left it."

Her thin eyebrows knit together in confusion. "My pen?" she says, shaking her head. "I don't understand."

"When I was giving you my address..." Eren voices slowly, making his way to stand by her side, cautious enough to leave an ample gap of space between them. "You turned around and left without it. I still have it."

Mikasa's frown only deepens, but the clarity that blooms in her eyes indicates that she knows exactly what he speaks of. "Eren... Why would I need back something so silly?"

The smile he flashes her then could outright blind a man. She finds herself struggling to keep a straight face in its presence. She swallows again. Her throat's gone dryer.

"We'll just pretend you came here to retrieve it," he shrugs. "Problem solved."

Mikasa stiffens.

Oh.

So he knows. He knows that she's uncomfortable with her own presence… being there. But how did… How?

She scoffs. Right. Of course he knows. He read it on her—her discomfort, her distress. He reads her like an open book. That's just the kind of person that he is with her. That's just the kind of person that he is, period.

For a moment, this causes panic to spur inside her, to scream, _You shouldn't be here! Get out! Get out get out get out!_ Because she's so far out of her comfort zone—islands, oceans, worlds away from her comfort zone. And her reason's gone. There's nothing pulling her, pushing her, urging or ushering where to go. Suddenly, she's alone. Without her courage, she's left deserted.

So get out.

This was a mistake.

Get out. _Now._

Mikasa clears her throat, standing straighter, pulling her frame up higher to seem taller, more confident, more in control. "Fair enough," she says, and the words glide over her tongue, spilling from of her lips with such ease, no longer tangled up in every corner of her mouth and addled by the swirling in her head and the ferocious beating in her chest. She's recomposed herself, it seems, and the soft smile that appears on her lips serves as her own declaration of the accomplishment.

Eren returns her smile with a quip of his brow, and the ghost of a chuckle passes through him before he's turning to walk away like a lion strolling through its den; Mikasa is his prey. But easy prey she's not. She's strong. She's stronger. She holds her ground, ignoring the trembling of her hands as she removes her gloves carefully, one by one, perusing her surroundings with calm, diligent eyes, finally deciding:

Ten minutes.

She gives herself ten minutes, and after that, she'll be gone. Ten minutes at his place won't kill her. She can do it. She's got this. You've got this, girl. You've got this!

"Want some hot chocolate?"

Not.

"Seriously!?" Mikasa's body perks up like an exclamation point.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Eren smiles, the pearly row of his teeth practically glistening in the light. He's turning to walk into the kitchen when Mikasa reaches out a hand to object.

"No, wait!"

He turns around to look at her, an expectant breath released from his lips, like he'd been holding it in after talking to her. There's a benevolence in his eyes that suggests eternal patience for her, as he seems to know what she's going to say even before the words shoot out of her mouth.

"You…" she wrings her hands together, bunching up her gloves with a clenched fist. "You don't have to do that, Eren."

"Please," he scoffs. "Your cheeks are practically _glowing _red. You're freezing. Just let me make you some, okay?"

Wait. What did he just—?

Mikasa's fingers bolt to her cheeks Shit. Her skin isn't cold—she's fucking blushing!

"Alright," she surrenders, but he's already gone into the kitchen to prep her a cup of the sinful, sugary, chocolaty drink from hell (or heaven, more like). Damn you, chocolate, damn you! Why do you have to be so damn addicting. Why?!

"Put your stuff wherever," he calls out, his voice retaining its calm composure, not even deceiving him once.

Mikasa pouts to herself in annoyance because of this. Damn you too, Eren Jaeger. Damn you and your calmness and your hot chocolate and your green eyes and your stupid, ruffled, bed-tousled hair! Okay, maybe not the hot chocolate. Bless the hot chocolate. And maybe not the hair either. Or the eyes. Or the—oh, shut up.

"Sure," her voice is tiny. Eren couldn't have heard it—not that it would make any difference if he did. He's pretty intent on making her that hot chocolate. She sighs, shoving her gloves into her purse before shrugging off the thick coat lading her shoulders. She hangs it up on one of the wooden arms of the coat hanger standing by the door, then carefully peels off the scarf around her neck before hanging that up too. Her fingers brush over the skin of her neck in the process, and she feels the burning furnace of her flesh with a daunting prick of dread.

Ugh.

Why does she have to be so damn pale that even the faintest of blushes will peek right through? Why can't she be more like Jean—wait, Jean blushes. So does his friend Marco. And Connie, and Sasha, and… shit. Well, is Eren the only person in the planet who's skin is tough enough never to give him away? Because everyone else seems to have no problem blushing. She prays that he continues to believe that the roseate paint across her cheeks comes from the cold and not from, say, learning that he's having an affair with his neighbor or anything.

Her purse handle digs into her skin from the bulk of its contents pulling down on the crook of her elbow, which is starting to hurt. Briefly, as she saunters over to the kitchen, she can't help but to think of Jean, of how he still hasn't called her, of how her phone might just ring with an incoming call from him at any moment—of how really, truly, this is the worst place to be in case he does call.

But all this is forgotten when she sees Eren standing with his back facing her, heating water in an electric tea kettle and starting up the coffee maker. Hot chocolate for her, coffee for him. It's almost like the old days, the way the smell of coffee floats out of an opened jar and fills the very molecules in the air. She almost swears she hears Armin's voice then, coming out from somewhere, whispering to her in the silence, telling her to go on, take a seat. Go on.

She thinks she feels him there.

She's not so sure.

It's almost like the old days, the way the smell of coffee floats out of an opened jar and fills the very molecules in the air… almost like the old days.

Almost.

**—o—**

Eren hears heeled footsteps approaching from behind. He turns his head to glance over his shoulder, catching a good glimpse of Mikasa.

And instantly regrets it.

He darts his eyes away, gesturing to the island that divides the living room from the kitchen, where three bar stools are tucked beneath the protruding edge. "You can sit, if you want," he tells her, fixing his eyes back on his current employment. His hand sifts through coffee granules to find the small measuring spoon buried inside, and some black specks stick to his palm from nervous sweat. He goes to wipe his hand clean on a kitchen towel when he hears her breathing, "'Kay."

Mikasa doesn't spare another second before taking a seat and slumping her purse on the rustic countertop. He's keenly aware of the screech of wood on wood as she pulls one of the stools back to climb onto it. Then, there's silence, followed by the faint sounds of her fingers tapping mindlessly on the wood.

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

For a moment, Eren is grateful that he's been too lazy these past few months to cut his long hair, for he feels the tips of his ears burning. Red. As red as the scarf that was coiled around her neck just seconds ago. His cheeks feel a little flushed too, so thank God he's been too lazy to shave also. Blushing in front of Mikasa right now would be disastrous. Lord knows it's taken everything in him not to break out into a full-blown heart attack at the sight of her there—at the gasping sight of her without her coat on.

Jesus.

_Tap._

He's silently begging God for all sorts of mercy again.

_Tap. Tap._

He can feel her eyes on him, digging into his back, and for a second, he's got to remind himself how to breathe properly.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

In. Out. Breathe in, breathe out. Not that hard, Eren. Not that hard.

Suddenly, the tapping stops.

"Pretty," he hears her comment, her tone as subtle as the snowflakes that fall outside. And just as if those very flakes were landing on his skin, her voice tickles at the back of his neck.

He doesn't dare peer over his shoulder to look at her this time. "What's that?"

"Your place," she croons, "I like it."

Eren shrugs. "It's nothing special."

"But it's… how do I say it… homey?"

"Homey?" he snorts.

"Yeah. Homey."

"If you say so."

His hands seem to have forgotten how to function properly. He gawks at the coffee maker for a moment as his brain re-processes the steps: Pour water into the reservoir. Check. Add black powdery shit into the filter. Check. Close the lid, put filter back, turn the power on. Che— wait, no. How does that go again?

"Hhhhhaaaaaaaahhhhhh," he hears her sigh, and it's so drawn out that he can't help it when he turns to check if she's alright.

A big mistake, that.

Because how the fuck—just how the complete, utter fuck can a human being be so damningly, perfectly, strikingly beautiful? Just—how? HOW?

Mikasa's staring out a window with her chin perched in her hand, blinking, not really paying attention to anything at all. A few strands of raven hair have fallen out of her neat, little bun, and burn a bright red color against the glow of the light. Her profile is soft, and perfect, apex-ing at the pointy tip of her nose. Her lashes, so long they're practically awnings over her features, flutter every so often with each shift of her eyes as her pert lips part with every breath of—

Ah.

Fuck.

Eren rips his gaze off of her, forcing his attention back on the coffee pot before him. _Tap. Tap. Tap. _The tapping's gone to a place inside of him now—a fervent thumping in his heart.

"You tired?" he manages to speak. He hopes the slight tremor rising in his body doesn't slip into his voice.

"No." Her voice is so light, like it's made of clouds. "I'm just thinking."

Thinking, he ponders. Thinking about what? "Oh," is all he musters, though. He can't think of what else to say after that.

"Do you..." she starts, but her voice falters.

Eren decides to finish the remainder of the steps in silence before flipping the coffee maker's power switch to on and turning, very cautiously, to face her. His fingers curl over the edge of the counter top behind him as he leans his weight onto it, the sharp edge of the marble cutting into his butt.

"Do I what?" he prompts. His voice grows ever softer.

Mikasa's, however, grows fainter—very fragile, and Eren has a hard time understanding why. (So unlike her. So unlike her). There's a waver in her tone when she queries, "Do… Do you have a bathroom?"

Eren's features align into a peculiar sort of frown, half-worried, half-confused. Something in her face has changed entirely. She looks… turned off. Like a light switch in her has suddenly been flipped off'.

She must've mistaken his expression as a mock to her intelligence, though, because she's quick to correct herself and express:

"I mean… ugh. Sorry. I meant, can I use your bathroom?"

"Right in there." Eren points to his room. Thank everything holy that he actually procured tidying up the demonic mess in there—somewhat—before letting her come inside. She turns her head over her shoulder to follow the line to where he's pointing, and he catches the way she seems to stiffen for some reason. "It's the door to the left."

Her neck snaps back to face him. She looks at him with an expression of… panic? Her voice grows even smaller when she says, "You mean in your room?"

"Yep."

"Oh…" Her gaze falls to her hands, which wring each other nervously again, one within the other, taking turns. It's like… she's wearing her heart on her sleeve or something. Eren tries to open his mouth to speak, but her voice interrupts him.

"Okay. I'll be right back."

Before he can even say anything, she's hopping off the stool, and gliding across his home and to his bedroom. She hesitates for a millisecond, much like how he had done before opening the door to greet her, and then pushes the door in further and makes her way inside. Eren watches as she slinks into his room, the _click click_ of her heeled boots muffled to low thumps because of the carpet flooring in his bedroom. He watches her vanish past his bed, listens closely as the door to the bathroom opens, closes, and then...

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuckkk._

Eren releases the longest breath he's ever held in his lungs, his chest deflating with a wheezing noise like a squeezed, empty accordion. Both his hands run fretfully through his hair, bunching up some strands in his fists, pulling.

The water in the kettle begins to boil.

It bubbles angrily as he sucks in a few deep breaths, cradling his face in his hands, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks.. He groans, and the sound is trapped inside his palms. "Fuck." The room is spinning. Or maybe that's just his head. Oh, God. "Fuck, fuck. Fuck me."

Alright. Okay, so maybe this isn't going to be as simple as he thought. Easy peasy, he'd told himself. Easy peasy. That was lie. That was a big, fat, flamboyant, fairy-dusted, fictitious (and that's only counting the adjectives that start with f) lie!

Hitch's voice starts to coo from somewhere in the distance, gnawing away at what little sanity he has left.

_You'll do fine, Fabio._

You'll do fine.

Really, now. Really? Then why do his lungs feel as if every breath suddenly hurts? And why are his hands trembling so much? And why—why—is his heart beating so damn ferociously he feels as if it's trying to pump all of his blood out at once? He's light-headed. He's dizzy. He needs water. God, he needs air.

Breathless. Breathless. How can a person leave him this breathless?

Fine, okay. Not a person. Mikasa. This is Mikasa we're talking about here, so of course he's on the verge of having a fucking heart attack. The Girl. The Girl—

Okay, no, stop. Stop thinking that. She's not "The Girl", she's "a girl". A girl. That's it. Just a girl.

_Have fun with your sexy, engaged, totally-out-of-bounds ex-girlfriend._

_It sure is a reeeeal shame that she's engaged now._

_You're missing out._

Damn you, Hitch. Damn you.

The small whimper that leaves his lips is utterly pathetic, but it's a good thing his face is still in his hands because—no wait, that's pretty pathetic too. Poor Eren Jaeger. Should his dignity rest in peace, for it's certainly abolished.

It's like, suddenly, Mikasa's presence is all that shines before his eyes. Even from behind his closed lids, he can see her! Feel her. Grasp the image of her standing there, behind him, with her purse in her hands, the coat and scarf finally off her body, baring her to him in simplistic ways he just isn't prepared for yet. Her hair all tied up, her slender arms hidden inside black sleeves of cotton, the small hairs that escape her little bun like they don't belong in there, like they're not meant to be drawn so far away from her face—and then, his own breath fucking hitching in his throat out of nowhere; his brain somersaulting inside his head, resetting, swiped blank.

Her chest.

Her collarbones.

Her.

The slender slopes that bend up her neck, down her spine, over her hips, across her legs—everywhere. Everywhere. A silhouette, a frame, a figurine craved from the richest, purest marble. Her eyes, always so fucking wide and startling, staring at him, eyeing him, burning into his skin and scorching it, setting him on fire, making his insides combust. Her silence, saying more than her own words, drilling into his ears and buzzing like white noise. The sounds of her breaths. The sound of her voice. The sound of her heels over his floor. His. Her. God, it's all so cruel. Too cruel. Too much.

And that fucking ring. That ring! It's like his heart can't even take it. He can't even stomach the sight: huge, sparkling, shouting money money money. Shouting everything he no longer has.

But she's real.

Mikasa, she… she's really here. She's come back. She actually stopped by and paid him a visit! What has he done to deserve this? Is it a Christmas miracle or something? Has made some truce with God? She's in his bathroom right now. His bathroom. In his home. Mikasa Ackerman is actually fucking here and holy shit damn it Eren Jaeger somehow managed to convince himself that he could handle that. How could he be so stupid as to actually believe that?! It's like—just look at her! One glance to her direction and he's got to learn how to breathe all over again. It's unnatural.

After a few more seconds of wallowing in his misery, Eren forces his head up from his hands, dragging his fingers down his face so that it looks like it's melting. His eyes flick over to the living room, eyeing the space she'd just walked past, admiring it as if it were a runway built specifically for angels, perhaps not fully believing the circumstances of his reality yet. Perhaps deciding that he never will. He sighs, and he's about to turn his gaze away when—

Pink.

Lacy.

Hanging on the lamp shade like a goddamn Christmas adornment—it's Hitch's underwear. Hitch's. Fucking. Pink. Lacy. Underwear.

Eren's breath catches in his throat.

Mikasa must've seen…

His heart plummets to the floor.

Mikasa must've seen that! There is no fucking way she didn't. The thing's practically neon. Neon! Why must Hitch wear panties that are fucking neon?!

All the oxygen around him turns to poison. He chokes. He's suffocating. Panic reels crazily inside him because Mikasa just saw that. MIKASA JUST SAW THAT AND THAT IS WHY SHE STOPPED AT THE DOOR OH MY FUCKING— WHY GOD WHY?!

No no no nononononono that wasn't there before. That wasn't there three seconds ago! How did— How did—?

Eren's face falls tragically into his hands. The disgruntled moan that leaves his lips is utterly pathetic. Open up, ground. Open up and swallow him. The once-love-of-his-life has seen his fuck buddy's panties. Repeat: the once-love-of-his-life has seen his neighbor's fucking panties thrown over his furniture like a damn haphazard—

"Kill me." The prayer is to no one in particular, just to any deity that will listen to him, he supposes. "Kill me now."

_(Damn you, Hitch. Damn you.)_

**—o—**

Staying calm is hard sometimes. Especially when you're having trouble breathing.

And Mikasa's having _a lot_ of trouble breathing right about now.

Her lungs seem not to want to cooperate as she darts her way through his bedroom, ignoring—trying very hard to ignore: the rumpled, messy sheets on his bed, the creamy color of the walls, the soft scent of him that lingers about everywhere and only wails its existence right into every prickling end of her nerves as she struggles not to suffocate—it's too much. It's all suddenly too much for her.

The bathroom isn't hard to find. It's a door to the left, just like he'd said, pried wide open so that she's granted with a full-frontal view of just how small it is inside. Too small. Not the right place to have an episode right now but it'll have to do—she has to hide somewhere.

Hide.

As soon as she makes her way inside, she's slapped across the face with the smell of a laundry detergent hauntingly redolent to the one that Armin always carried in his clothes—the one Eren's been using since forever.

The one his mother always used for him.

An image, fleeting, flutters its way across her mind: Carla kneeled on the floor of their home, trying to teach her and Eren how to fold their own clothes properly. Eren failing, getting frustrated. Carla laughing, her eyes disappearing into happy, crinkly crescents like two sparkling moons. Her laughter resonating through their home, like music echoing inside a theater. Their home. Happiness. Laughter. Happiness.

And Armin.

Armin smiling. Armin talking about something new. Armin hearing, listening, cherishing the sounds around him before— Before—

Stop.

The past is too much. Too much. It's all too much right now.

The door falls shut behind her. She leans her back against it, faint, panting, her knees nearly trembling with every tiny gasp. The walls seem to constrict themselves around her, closing in, the room growing smaller, growing tighter. She's shaking so much. Her breaths are short, shallow, her heart hammers brutally inside her chest. Her pulse drums within her ears—she can practically hear her own blood rushing through her. Panic. So much inexplicable panic. It floods over her, a dam that has broken, emotions that drag her under, tossing, whirling, drowning her within her own self.

What is wrong with her?

Alright. Stop it, Mikasa. Stop it.

Control. Control. Smooth sailing. Control.

She closes her eyes, taking in a long, heavy breath, swallowing the breezy smell of the detergent along with it. The bathroom is a lot bigger than she'd initially thought, but her mind barely processes this. Breathe. That's all she has to do now. Breathe.

How much time passes? She's not sure. A minute, maybe ten. Her thoughts fade into the back of her mind, melting into thick, obsidian goo.

Nothingness.

Before her, nothing, just an image she has programmed into her head: a balloon. It inflates—inhale. It deflates—exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

_Innnhale._

_Exxxhale._

Breathe.

A few more minutes pass.

The storm, slowly, quiets. Her heart's drum is a steady beat, hard, inside her. The world stills, there is nothing but her own breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Control. Smooth sailing…

Control.

She opens her eyes. The world focuses, little by little, and she sees the washing machine, then the dryer, both inside a small closet behind an opened sliding door that takes up nearly an entire wall. She blinks. She's dizzy. That's always what happens when she goes through this—these episodes. She's not sure what to call them yet. They just happen sometimes. They just... happen.

Her breaths stutter in and out of her mouth. She's still leaned against the door, succumbed to the calamity of her emotions. Spiral. Whirl. Clamor. Panic. Panic. _I still can't fucking breathe._

Suddenly, she hears Eren's footsteps approaching from outside.

Her heart stops.

The wooden floor creaks under his weight as he moves. It sounds like he's nearby, close, maybe—hopefully not—inside his own room now. But then the sound disappears back into the distance. He's back at the kitchen.

Um. Okay?

Another deep breath, long, it kinda hurts her lungs to bear through it. There's a flush all throughout her body, the eerie stillness that follows all disasters. The flushing tingles at her fingertips, coiling in her palms. There's cramping all throughout her muscles, tight, but she ignores it. It's okay. It's okay. You're okay. You're fine now. You're fine.

White. A drain. She's staring into the bowl of the wash basin. How did she get there? Doesn't matter. Breathe. Breathing is what matters. Breathe.

She twists the knobs to lukewarm water, watching as it shoots out of the faucet and sploshes into the sink. She lets her fingers slip into the stream. Cold, it kinda hurts her hands. She holds them there, waiting for the feeling to return to her fingers. Soon, the water turns hot, then scalding, and she's hissing, snapping her hands away.

At least she feels now. Her body processes touch. She pokes her arm. Feels it. Okay, that's good. That's very good.

Her breaths are longer, less labored, less clogged in her throat. Part of her wants to call out for Eren—for anybody—to help her. Maybe… talk to her? Maybe that will help? She doesn't know. She doesn't know what really helps right now.

A few more minutes pass. There's silence outside. Eren's not making a single noise—or perhaps Mikasa's just not hearing any. Part of her mind, the delirious part, even suggests that he has left her. But it's his own home, and Mikasa's still in here. That's highly unlikely.

Her hands are shaky, but she cradles them under the stream, forcing them to still a little. She's about to splash some water on her face but oh, yeah. She's wearing makeup.

Sigh. The water slips out through a crack between her hands. Soon, she's conscious, looking at her own reflection in the mirror and watching herself breathe. Well, look at that. You're getting calm now. See? That wasn't so hard.

You've got this. You're okay. You're strong. You're strong, Mikasa.

You. Are. Strong.

Slowly, she runs her gaze over her own features in the mirror, finding the same stranger she saw back home. She takes another deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Balloon inflates. Balloon deflates. Just like that. You're fine. You're fine now, you're fine.

Peevishly, she picks at a few strands of hair that have fallen out of her bun, smoothing them behind her ears, watching the faint blush that rises to her cheeks and, this time, understanding it. She's hot, all of a sudden, her body engulfed in fathomed flames. It always happens like this. Her body just… freaks out sometimes. Her heart starts beating like crazy and her lungs shrivel up to empty sacks of nothing and suddenly she's sweating and suffocating and shaking so much she swears she'll fall apart and crumble.

Nobody knows about this. About these "episodes". And she's been crippled by them for a few years now.

Nearly six, actually. Nearly six years.

They don't happen often. Merely three times a year, if that. But, lately, they've been occurring more frequently, arising in the most unexpected of times. At dinners. At parties. At evenings spent with Jean's parents—sometimes even when she's just alone with him, where she knows she's completely safe.

Why do they happen? She doesn't really know.

But she's not going to think about that right now. Thinking about that only makes them worse. Breathing. That's what she's gotta do. Breathe.

There's a buzzing and turning in her head that makes her light-headed. Her thoughts spin like clothes inside a washing machine, round and round and round. It takes another three minutes before her heartbeat quiets down to healthy intervals with enough time in between. _Ba-dump._ A second. _Ba-dump._ Another. Breathing's a little easier now too. She's getting there. She's calming down.

There's a big part of her that suggests she just go home. Just call it quits. She lasted, what, three minutes in there before flipping out? It's not ten, but that's not so bad, right? Three. She should just go home now. Go home and quit. Wait for Jean to get out of work like she's supposed to.

But… something inside of her throbs, like a wound that's been re-opened, gushing and bleeding and refusing to be ignored.

Maybe it's her pride, but Mikasa just can't bring herself to do it. She can't just walk away. Not now. There's something more here, something thick, heavy, hanging about in the air. A presence. It's pushing her forward. Pulling her in.

God, this is all so confusing right now.

She locks eyes with her own reflection, ignoring the fact that she dislikes what she sees. Her following thoughts are a streak of light in the consuming darkness of her mind:

Push yourself.

How do you ever hope to improve if you don't push yourself?

Sometimes, being out of your comfort zone is exactly what you need. It forces you to grow and to adapt to your surroundings. It stretches you, like a rubber band, and eventually, the wear of the experience will implant itself into you, and you will never be the same again. A band that's been stretched too far can never snap back to its primal state. What's important, is to take that first step out of your zone, and to stay there, instead of breaking and teetering back inside. Your comfort zone will always stretch itself out eventually and meet you where you stand. In turn, everything about you starts growing. But you have to push yourself first. Push yourself forward and force yourself to stay there.

Armin was the one who told her that.

And that's why she's here, isn't it? To break out of a monotonous routine? To do something? It's okay if it's just Eren (even if it _isn't_ just Eren). It's okay because she knows him, so it's definitely a start.

Although, today, things do feel a lot more different than how they felt before, two weeks ago, when it was like being with him was the most natural thing in the world. Seeing him again felt like… like a veil had been lifted right off her and the bleak opaqueness of her life had bled forward into clarity, if only for a moment. Being with him was like learning how to breathe anew. Even the air around her had grown different. A shift in the wind, a whisper carried in the night, it all led her there, to him, like she belonged there. Like she was meant to run away from her own engagement party all along.

But this... today is just so different. Everything feels clumsy, scattered and jittery. It's like they're teenagers again or something, and it's not just because she's discovered way too many things about his sex life in the span of four minutes than she's ever needed to know in her entire life (seriously though, neon pink panties on the lamp shade?) but it's because they're worlds apart again. Something feels… ripped away from her. Mikasa can't really explain it, but it's there. Wailing for attention.

On the bright side, though, she's calm now.

This time, her eyes run over her surroundings a bit more carefully, absorbing what they see. She sees the toilet, the tub that doubles as a shower, the frilly rug on the floor, the blue tiles on the walls, the chipped paint of the sink in front of her, the small mirror specked with dust. There's only one towel hanging on the rack. One. So maybe his situation with Hitch isn't all that serious? Not that it matters, of course. Mikasa's just mildly curious.

The pale shower curtain is wretched wide open, and she sees shampoo, a loofah, all the basic necessities. But something familiar catches her eye then. It makes her smile.

Old Spice body wash.

Aqua Reef.

The same one as Jean's.

Mikasa scoffs lightly, covering her mouth with her hand. Well, isn't that just uncanny? They both use the same damn body wash too. How cute.

How unfair.

Eren's probably wondering what's taking her so long by now and, to be honest, Mikasa's a bit surprised he hasn't come by to check up on her yet. She flushes the toilet to feign some sort of usage, and it does that horrible, gargling noise that sounds like the poor thing is choking on its own water. She giggles like a little girl at the sound of it going _glaaarrgglleee-ppfftpfftt-shhhhh_. Ha ha. Ha.

Okay. She feels better now. Way better. Not perfect, not fantastic, but definitely better.

She takes in a long, deep breath, preparing herself for what she's about to do next. She can do it. You've got this, girl. You've got this! Rubber band. Rubber band. Stretch yourself like a rubber band.

Two things push her out of that bathroom and bring her back to Eren:

One, the stubborn decision that she will remain outside of her comfort zone until it goes out to meet her where she stands.

And two—well, this one's pretty obvious.

Hot chocolate.

**—o—**

Eren looks up from his drink when he hears the creak of the bathroom door being pushed open. Her footsteps follow—soft, tentative, a delicate presence floating through his room. He darts his eyes back down to his cup when he knows she'll be close enough to see him.

When Mikasa appears at the door, she finds him leaned over the island with his elbows propped atop the countertop, holding a ceramic mug that reads '**How about a nice cup of shut the fuck up?**' in his hands and blowing at the steam wafting off of it with pouted lips. In front of him is a smaller My Neighbor Totoro mug filled to the top with hot chocolate. A nice layer of whipped cream floats on the top.

Mikasa's mouth begins to water, on cue.

She smiles when Eren looks up.

Their eyes meet. Finally.

"You alright?" he asks her, taking a small sip of his coffee.

"Yeah," she breathes, hopping onto a bar stool. Her cheeks still feel a bit hot, and there's a small buzz, a vibration—still—in her palms. But she ignores it. She ignores all of it because she's strong, stronger than this. She realizes how close they are now, with him being on the other side of the island, right across from her, leaned over so close that she can see the golden flakes in his teal-green eyes as he watches her, searching her face.

He drops his gaze to his drink, dragging his fingertips along the side of his mug coyly.

"I didn't know how much you wanted so..." sliding the can of whipped cream over to her side, he smirks. "Knock yourself out."

"Thank you." She takes the small Totoro mug in her hands and brings it to her lips, breathing in its chocolaty smell mixed with a small trace of something that is just wholly Eren, as he's standing so close she can also smell something else, something sweet and earthy, radiating off his clothes and skin. The odd mixture of scents is strangely comforting to her. Warm.

Homey.

Eren doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's staring at her now. She feels his gaze on her as she closes her eyes, swallowing a small (or large, depending on your measuring standards) sip, and holy _God_ it's the whole chocolate tart incident all over again. Her taste buds scream with pleasure. There's a party in her mouth—balloons with confetti and poppers and everything. It's seriously unreal how much this girl enjoys chocolate, especially when there's a triumphant wad of whipped cream reigning on the top.

She lets out a tiny sigh of happiness, which makes Eren smile in delight.

"Good?"

"Delicious."

"Great."

And then they're silent after that.

The sound of their quiet sipping fills the room. Slurp. Sip. Swallow. They're so silent, Mikasa thinks she hears the snow falling outside, even though that's fairly improbable. Her eyes wander about her surroundings, admiring the kitchen, the floor, the dark spots and ridges on the rustic wooden counter top. She trails a dark vein with her finger, taking in another mouth-filling sip of hot chocolate. Eren's gone very silent in front of her, much like how he was when he allowed her to first enter his home—waiting. Waiting. Waiting for her to finish viewing her surroundings with an ease she, herself, does not possess.

Soon, though, her eyes trail off to something else. Something more… personal.

Eren isn't looking at her.

So she takes this as her chance.

It's funny, really, how just two weeks can change a person. Or maybe just a different angle. Or a different light. Because Eren… he looks so different to her now. Like she's looking at him—truly looking at him—for the very first time in years. She notices things that just weren't there two weeks ago, or that being with him at nighttime didn't allow her to see.

She eyes the small cleft on his chin, the button tip of his nose, the individual hairs of stubble on his face that look sharp and prickly, sprouting out the smoothness of his skin and dotting it like pine needles fallen onto the snow. She thinks of how they must feel under her fingertips, then doesn't bother to scold herself for such a brash thought.

He seems to be lost in thought, gazing at the counter top beneath him, tracing the veins on the wood with his gaze. His eyelashes, a dark brown color, are long and thick, just like how she remembers them; shooting straight out and curling up ever so slightly at the ends, fringing his emerald eyes like heavy curtains drawn shut to conceal precious jewels. She eyes the punctuated bump of his Adam's apple, bobbing as he swallows another sip.

Slurp.

Sip.

Swallow.

She briefly contemplates doing the same, to break the chain of her reverie, but chooses not to.

Mindlessly, she eyes the tendons stretching on his neck, the small sliver of skin over the junction of his collarbones, where his shirt begins and covers the rest of him. His arms are bent over the counter, so she sees the swollen mounds of his biceps, the hidden crook of his elbows, the blonde hairs on his forearms and the veins that stretch out like roads on a map, leading up to the smooth tannish backs of his hands, whence his long fingers stretch and curl around his '**How about a nice cup of shut the fuck up?**' mug, baring the ridges of his knuckles and hiding the profane text in his large hands.

His nails.

His fingertips.

Him.

His long, crazy, disheveled hair that shoots out in all directions, swept carelessly to one side so that it doesn't fall over his eyes, some rebellious strands sticking out and burning a bright, yellow color in the glow of the light. There's a tiny crease on the skin between his brows, which makes Mikasa wonder if she's ever even seen that there before. It might come from age. It might just be because of the intent way he's staring at the counter, like he's trying to pierce it with his vision. Who knows. Mikasa decides she'll never know the cause—and this time actually scolds herself for wondering how that might feel under her fingertips too.

Eren looks so different.

Eren looks entirely the same.

It's like she's seeing him for the very first time.

It's like she's been seeing him forever.

She narrows her eyes, and now she's the one blatantly staring. Eren doesn't seem to notice, though, or to mind, as his thoughts have apparently consumed him. She watches him blink. She watches the way one of his hands leaves the mug and lands over his his other arm, fingers absently grazing the exposed skin of his bicep, scraping it, his nails leaving pale scratch marks on his skin. But then—

Boom.

His eyes are on her in an instant.

Mikasa gasps (so much for being gracefully in control of herself) and then quickly focuses all her efforts into taking another gulp of her hot chocolate. The thick liquid travels down her throat as a scorching lump of fire. She winces visibly at her dumb mistake.

Eren's eyebrows raise, very slowly, to the top of his head. He seems to be judging her, calculating, weighing her on the inherent scale of his mind and coming to God only knows what sorts of conclusions.

She doesn't hesitate to retaliate against his stares with a low and breathy "What?" that makes his insides shake like jell-o.

"What what?"

Mikasa simpers, tracing the rim of her cup with the tip of her finger. He stares at the chipped nail polish of her nails, thinking of how it sabotages the delicate balance that is her utter, unconscientious perfection. Much like the little strands of hairs poking out from her bun, and the shade of a small scar peeking out below her eye from underneath her makeup, the chipped paint over her nails rebels against the forced tidiness she's imposed on herself, reminding him she's only human. Reminding him that yes, even Mikasa Ackerman has flaws.

There's that lisp, breathless voice of hers again, rising and dipping with every shifting nuance of her tone. He could get lost in it. He could get lost in it forever.

"You're staring, Eren," she says, and he scoffs. He can't help it. The smirk that draws itself on his lips is pure and impulsive.

Mocking.

It's as if the demonic spirit of Hitch herself summons from within him, and he spits out before he can even think, "Oh, I'm the one staring?"

And that, right there, is when he takes a gigantic shit on everything.

The screech of tires burning over asphalt, the loud crash of glass shattering on the floor, the abrupt scratch of a record that's been interrupted—they are all the sudden look on Mikasa's gorgeous face. Funny how a set of simple words can completely change everything. His comment is the last blow that sends the wall crumbling down entirely. A big, big, BIG mistake.

Because Mikasa stiffens like a tree trunk. Mikasa stifles back another gasp. Mikasa suddenly looks… terrified.

Of him.

Terrified of him.

Eren watches helplessly as her eyes widen for a millisecond before shooting down to the mug in her hands, coiling into herself, shrinking away from him. Shrinking away from him. Shrinking away.

Fuck.

She looks like she's about to fall off the chair. Her body's suddenly too heavy, weighed down with shame. Shame. She looks so suddenly ashamed.

Eren swallows.

Panicking.

Fuck fuck fuck _fuck fuck._

Instantly, he hates himself, his big mouth, his impulsive bouts that don't let him think because _idiot idiot idiot you fucking idiot why do you always speak out of your asshole and never use your head?_ He cringes. Hard. It's like he's watching a car wreck—his own disaster. Five words. Five simple little words and they are enough. They are enough to shake her, to send her fluttering away.

Because he knows. Eren knows how sensitive Mikasa is right now and how she's second-guessing being here and how much of a miracle it is that she's even here at all in the first place and out of all the things he could fucking say he just—!

"Shit."

She won't even meet his gaze. She's staring at the drink in her hands intently, quietly, not saying a word.

Her silence kills him.

"Fuck," he breathes. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine."

"Really, I—"

"It's okay."

Eren bites his lip.

FUCK.

Mikasa still won't look at him.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUC**K FUCK.**

"I'm sorry," she's the one to say. Her voice is laced with apprehension. "I don't know why I came… I..."

Eren feels the ceiling collapse on top of him. He can't breathe. He's choking when Mikasa suddenly laments, "I think this was a mistake."

Oh, my God.

Please.

No.

Her hands snatch her purse. "I should go."

There's the haunting screech of wood on wood as she pushes the chair back, the click of her heels meeting the floor and she's standing. The very things that brought Eren joy just moments ago, they haunt him. They hurt him. They make him straighten up and ball his hands into tight fists. He's watching. He's helplessly watching as it's all happening too fast. His mind barely processes anything at all except for:

She's leaving.

She's fucking leaving!

"Wait!" He nearly bolts over the island in desperation to stop her. "H-hold on. Just— Wait. Please?"

Mikasa's expression is pained. She shakes her head at him, slumping her purse over her shoulder and "I really shouldn't, Eren. I—"

"Mikasa." The way he says her name makes her stop. He takes this as his chance, whispering, apologizing to her with "Stay. Please. I just— Ignore what I just said. Pretend I didn't say anything. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot, Mikasa. I'm sorry."

She looks startled, surprised, surprised at his reaction. Her eyes are awestruck, her mouth agape; she is frozen into place, stuck between turning around and standing still to stare at him.

She continues to do the latter.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable…" he bites his lip again, scrunching his eyes shut, running both of his hands through his hair. "Agh, shit." Mikasa watches the way some locks glide through the spaces between his fingers, and how his teeth pin his bottom lip, pinching it so tightly she fears he might draw blood.

She looks away, since he's already caught her staring.

Eren opens his eyes to look at her, and sees that her cheeks are red. Flushing. And she look so small. Mikasa, out of all people, looks suddenly so small to him.

"Please?" he heaves, and there he goes, biting that damn lip again. "Seriously, I'm sorry."

Mikasa remains still, unsure of what to do.

Why is he apologizing so much? Why is he so contrite? He sounds so... desperate.

There's fading imprints on his bottom lip from where his teeth had sunken into it. Mikasa watches the pale patches start to fade. She watches. Just watches. She's so unsure of what to do.

What should she do?

_Go home,_ her mind says.

_Stay,_ her heart whispers.

Breathing. How does one breathe, again?

Mikasa opens her mouth to speak, and Eren stares—breathless—as a thin thread of saliva stretches between her parting lips. But then they clamp shut, pressed taut together, and she lets out a short breath through her nostrils.

"I really shouldn't," she vents, almost desperately, like an animal trying to escape a cage. "I shouldn't be here at all."

The sigh that leaves Eren's lips is weary. He can't help it when he dares, "Then why are you, Mikasa?" Oh, my god, Eren. Speak with your mouth. Your mouth. NOT YOUR ASSHOLE YOU IMPULSIVE FUCK.

But it's a very good question. It's the right question.

It makes her think.

He's challenging her, and Mikasa sighs, too. Her fingers clench even tighter around the purse handle as she murmurs, "I don't really know." Her voice so frail, so fragile. It almost breaks.

It almost breaks him.

It's so fucking unlike her that it physically hurts.

Her abyssal eyes... they're heavy, droopy, melting like ink bleeding onto paper. Dispersing, frittering away. He's losing her. He's already losing her and she just got here. She's already slipping away. He's gotta do something. He's gotta do something fast.

Eren takes in a sharp breath, and the sound makes her look at him.

"Well, then..." He finds his coffee mug again, bringing it to his lips and taking a long gulp to try to calm himself. He's got to be calm. Remain calm. Remain calm. This will assuage her.

His breath is hot inside his throat, intimate, a furnace in his neck when he carols, "Isn't that something?"

Her face—Mikasa's perfect, angelical face—it brightens. Slowly, so slowly, like sunlight dawning over the world.

Eren holds his breath, and he's been doing that a lot lately. There's a voice in him that cries for her to not go, to please please please don't leave me. Not now. Not yet.

It's too soon.

Too soon.

But he doesn't show his panic. Not at all. He keeps himself grounded, feels the coffee splosh its way down to his stomach, feels his own breaths, the silence in the air...

Feels the way Mikasa's looking at him right now: Torn. Like she wants to go. Like she can't, really.

Then he finds some courage. From where it came from, he doesn't know. But he opens his mouth, passing the tip of his tongue over the bruised surface of his bottom lip, and hopes he'll make her stay, just a bit longer, stay, with a last-minute addition of "How'd you even get in here anyway? The front door's always locked."

Mikasa sighs then, and it's light, fluffy. Like she's made entirely of clouds.

Eren wonders what she must feel like. Her skin, her, underneath his fingertips. Probably very warm, he decides. Very warm and homey.

He doesn't dare to touch her, though. He doesn't bother to scold himself for such a brash thought either.

There's a tenderness in the silence swimming about in the room. It's got a presence.

"If I told you," she voices, her lashes fluttering as she averts her eyes even farther away from him, "you wouldn't believe me at all."

Eren tries not to smile. Because her hand has found its place back on the bar stool. Her feet are planted on the floor. Now, she's looking at him, staring at the golden flakes in his eyes like she's counting them one by one.

Like stars.

There are constellations in his irises. This time, Mikasa has a hard time forcing herself to look away.

A millisecond of silence hangs between him and her, suspended in the air, accompanied by the daunting realization that his entire future is literally standing right in front of him. Literally. There, only an arm's length away, sporting a small top-bun with frilly fly-aways and a permanent scratch below her right eye—and with his hot chocolate—his—lingering on her lips, stands The Girl. The Girl. She's there.

She's actually fucking there.

And she's actually not fucking leaving.

Eren is left breathless and stupid all over again. Because she smiles. And then he does too.

There's a promise in the snow, in the very flakes that fall outside, in the sighs of the winter wind that breathe and whisper, that she won't go. Not yet. Not now. Because she's got his heart in her hands. She's got him blundering and fretting and feeling all sorts of brilliant emotions that only happen when you're alive, that only happen when you're breathing.

Because there's that screech of wood on wood again. That click of her heels upon his floor.

Those eyes staring at him and burning through flesh and bone and right into him.

There's his own lips parting, gasping, taking in a breath for him to test:

"Try me."


	5. If Life is a Garden

**WARNING: **Chapter contains explicit sexual content. We get to breach a sliver into their past, and see the final moments before Mikasa left him. So expect the lengthiest, angstiest smut scene you've probably read in your entire life. I do implore that you focus more on what is actually happening rather than just the sex, since every small detail of what occurs is what Eren has to remember her by for the next six years of his life. Imagine how obsessively he racked his brain over and over again for ages trying to see where he went wrong. Yeah. Exactly.

Okay, anyways, enjoy! I suggest you take your time and read this in segments, as there are two scenarios that take place: past, and present.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

_.: If Life is a Garden, Then I Am a Weed, And She Is a Rose :._

.: Chapter V :.

* * *

"_I will miss you always, even in the moments when you are right beside me. Time apart has planted longing inside me and I do not think it is a weed that will ever stop growing. It will always live there, but my god, it grows the most spectacular flowers."_

—Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

**—o—**

How can she say no?

When, try me, he says. Try me.

Strands of his chocolate hair have fallen over his eyes, swept all across his forehead, swiped every which way. Unruly. A mess. It's how it fell when he let go of it. It's how it fell over his face. He looks so young, all of a sudden. Seventeen, eighteen. Not twenty-five.

There's remorse shining in his eyes, a thick veil of emotion eclipsed by that impossible shade of green with blue. He's got that lip—that damned lip of his—pinched between his teeth again. Waiting. Timeticks and tocks and passes but it stands still and it waits and it _hangs_ all simultaneously. How such a thing is even possible, Mikasa doesn't even know.

Their breathing is the only sound that occupies the dense space between them, the… "bubble" of safe distance they have kept between each other all this time. A careful plan. A silent agreement of, 'I stand here, you stand there, and I don't dare touch you, as long as you don't dare touch me'. They maintain it. They hold it stubbornly in place.

Restraint.

Restraint is the step back from his previous frantic gesture when his hand—flying out to stop her—had reached out in despair._T__o_ her, _for_ her, but not daring any contact. They don't fathom such a thing. They can't risk it. Not now. Not now, when they're both so fragile, so sensitive, just one feeble puff away from being swept off and dragged down into the current.

Delicate.

Delicate is the way she stands, uncertain, so light, like if she weighs nothing. Over the island, his hands ball into even tighter fists, as if the gesture were enough to hold him down, keep him grounded, to stop him from granulating into dust in case she does decide to leave, just walk away from him again. Forever.

Because the possibilities are still floating around them in the air, whispering, taunting them both.

Because there is still that vibrant, plausible _yes._ That scathing, undesirable _no_.

Because it truly is that simple: one step, one foot after the other, one gentle glide out his home. A door, the loud pang of it slamming shut. The daunting boom that resonates, that indicates she's left. That's all it takes. That's all it takes to kill a person, to finish someone off entirely.

_Forever._

Mikasa hears.

She hears one of his knuckle bones popping.

She eyes the pink plush of his lip, still trapped between his teeth.

She sees the way his cheeks burn, turning a brilliant streak of red in his embarrassment.

She watches his fierce demeanor crumble, and hers follow right along.

Mikasa watches. Just watches. There's not much else she feels that she can do.

Suddenly, she realizes the inexplicable honesty that is Eren. With such intensity he's just… _so_ _honest_. His emotions bleed_, _pouring out of him and spilling forth, staining everything they touch like ink. They seep into the very cracks of her skin, filling the thin spaces with such gravity, such weight, she's left voiceless and held down to where she stands. She can't understand it. She can't understand _him._ There's so much truth in him, so much.

He appalls her.

She's shocked.

When was the last time Mikasa ever saw someone reacting this way? So frantically, so raw? When was the last time she ever heard anyone apologize to her like this? So vehemently, so contrite? When was the last time anyone actually went out of their way to make sure that she's happy? That she's okay? When has anyone ever begged for her to stay?

Begged for her like this?

Begged for her _at all?_

She can't honestly remember. She's not even sure she wants to, right now.

Eren's eyes are sharp and luminous. Staring at her, staring at her. Filling the cracks of her skin, staining them, weighing her down, pinning her feet to the ground with nails. He's waiting. Waiting for her words.

Words. Seems that she's forgotten how to form them.

"Um..." Mikasa's eyes fall to the abandoned mug of hot chocolate. The whipped cream has begun to melt, softening to a weak lump that floats over the drink and swirls into it in faint streaks of white.

A sigh, barely audible. It leaves her mouth, and then Eren's. Because that's her favorite part: when the cream melts into the hot chocolate. They both know this fact well.

Eren hopes it will make her linger. Stay. Just a moment longer. _Stay._

But she hesitates.

Her eyes skitter over to the door, to the place she knows she should be going to. _Go home_, her mind tells her. _Go home_, every atom in her body screams. Go home.

But her lips are moving before she can stop them, forming words, defying her, spitting out sputters and breaths, helpless attempts at sentences she seemingly can't place together.

"I buzzed," she says, and Eren's completely still in front of her. He looks tense, like he's holding in his breath. Hanging. Hanging on to every word she says.

He nods imperceptibly for her to continue. Still blushing. Still red. He nods.

Mikasa swallows.

"I buzzed," she repeats, clearing her throat to assuage its tightening passage. "But nothing happened."

Eren's shoulders loosen slightly as he lets out a long breath—the one that he'd been holding in, apparently. "And?"

Mikasa's gaze falls, uncertain. Go home. _Go home._ Jean's voice is the one that tells her now. _C'mon__, Baby. Come back to me. __Come back to me. _Go home.

But…

Try me, Eren's murmur urges on, a faint wisp that floats around her and latches onto her flesh. It encircles her. It tightens its grip. Try me. Try me.

_Try me._

"And..." She closes her eyes, feet still nailed to the ground, unsure of where to go, what to do, what to think, what to feel. The wisp's clasp on her tightens even more. It throttles her throat. It trembles in her hands. It shoots her heartbeat up to her temples.

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump. _The milliseconds shorten in between.

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump. _Fuck, she's getting dizzy.

There's a string pulling her to the door. A rope pulling her to Eren, attaching her to him in a bond she cannot snap. She's trapped, held stuck between the two. Stuck between a yes, a no, her quickening heartbeat, the possibilities that loiter around them in the air, the glorious can of whipped cream that stands atop the island and the way her body shakes and heartbeat quickens and she's so skeptical of what's right and wrong anymore and she's so torn, so torn, so torn, so torn. God, nothing adds up. There's a jumbled mess of thoughts blurring in her mind, a flurry of emotions mixing in her heart. She's being tugged and pulled and soon she's going to be tearing.

A _string._

A_ rope._

It's pretty obvious which one is stronger, in the end.

Mikasa opens her eyes again.

"And so I waited. Outside. I waited outside."

The corner of Eren's jaw does that little thing it always does when he tightens it, that little "throb", like his bone is trying to prod out of his skin or something. Mikasa thinks he's going to say something then.

He doesn't.

"But then I was getting cold so..." She glances at the chipped nail polish of her left hand, which tightens even more around her purse handle, trembling. Trembling. She can't stop all this fucking trembling—_and __why won't it stop? __Why am I so nervous?__ Why can't I breathe properly __and w__hy do I feel so light-headed __and __woozy and __faint__? Why?_

_W_ _hat's happening to me?_

"So I buzzed one last time and—"

"Did it scare you?"

Eren's voice is a taser shock to her insides. Mikasa jolts, balks, blinks at him for a moment.

"What?"

"The buzzer," he explains, his voice a mere flake above a whisper. Soft. Like powdered snow. "Did it scare you?"

Mikasa stares at him with her mouth open, like she's not sure how to answer, how to form the right words. By the grim expression on her face, Eren thinks she'll definitely decide to leave now. He can already see her vanishing out the door, leaving him forever. But then… but then, Mikasa she…

She laughs.

She fucking _laughs_ and Eren's chest deflates heavily at the sound of it, overcome with relief.

"Yes," she breathes bashfully, smoothing some strands of raven hair behind her ears. "Yeah, it really scared me."

A smile tugs at Eren's lips. He tries to fight it, but it proves to be too strong for him in the end. He relents, smiling at her, beaming so brightly Mikasa thinks she's left momentarily blind.

She's careful, though. She looks away.

"It's loud, isn't it?"

The raven-haired girl shakes her head in awe. "_So _loud, though."

Eren chuckles, and Mikasa's lungs contract at the sound of his laugh. His hands unclench over the counter top, floating over to his upper arms, where he holds himself and rubs circles on the skin of his biceps with his thumbs.

And then she's staring. Mikasa tries not to and yet—

She stares.

That gesture _right there, _she recognizes it. It's ancient Eren body language. Just like his impulsive lip biting or his running a hand through his hair when he's fretful or exasperated (or two, if his distress is bad enough) it's all… It's all…

It's all old, ancient, inexplicable _him._

And it's still there, after all this time. She never ceases to be amazed by the little things about him that remain, because he's changed so fucking much, and yet he hasn't. She wants to follow the swirling motions of his thumbs, absorb the sound of them swiping over his skin lightly. Get lost in it. Let it bring her back in time.

She wants to keep staring.

At the tiny scar peeking out just above the spot he's grazing with his finger, a foreign mark inhabiting his caramel complexion, marring it with its pale, silver-y line. It's ugly. And yet it's pretty. Like a nasty cat scratch. Like a shooting star.

It sparks a few questions.

She wants to find out how he got it. Ask him why, where, when? _How? _Ask him. Tell him she doesn't remember that little scratch being there before. Tell him that it troubles her that he's gotten all these scars across his body, wounds she cannot fathom at all. She wants to figure him out, decipher all the things she's missed in the past five (nearly six) years, things that bear the proof of their existence on the very surface of his skin. If only she could just bring herself to ask him... She wants to. She wants to so bad. She wants to—

Yeah. Um. So they've been quiet for some time now. It's starting to get very awkward.

"Anyways..." Mikasa's the one to say, and Eren looks up at her when she does, eyes all bright and startling like two little suns. He looks so damn young, despite his stubble. Like he's reversed in age. No longer an adult in his mid-twenties that's too lazy to cut his own hair. No... Not anymore.

Mikasa forgets what she was just about to say to him.

_Fuck._

And yet, despite her inner stress, she can't help feeling that the air around them grows somewhat lighter and easier to breathe. It guides her forward. It helps her when she pulls the bar stool back, when her foot lifts off the ground and she climbs back onto it. Like if somebody were pushing her to do it, she's driven to comply; she doesn't even bother questioning the spectral, internal nudge. Because there's just something about this place. A presence stands sturdy among the walls, like it's been living here forever.

Eren watches as she goes to sit back down. He watches. Just watches. There's not much else he feels that he can do.

There's a noise.

There's the screech of wood on wood, that comforting click of her heels upon his floor.

There's Eren gawking, biting his lip—and seriously, he has _got_ to stop doing that.

There's silence.

There's the tremor in her body and the shaky manner in which she holds her foot in the appropriate place, her hand supporting her weight to mount the chair that's suddenly grown taller, an obstacle, impossible to climb. She almost has to remind herself how to breathe all over again, she is shaking so much.

She _knows._

With every part of her, Mikasa knows:

This is a mistake.

A **BIG **mistake.

And still, she climbs the stool, removes her purse from her shoulder and reclaims her rightful spot by her end of the island, right across from the wild-haired, green-eyed boy with golden flakes specked across his irises like stars that have been sprinkled in his eyes.

Eren sees her slump her handbag over the counter top, and it makes a _fump_ kind of noise, sagging in its own weight. The gilded 'Prada' lettering on it gleams in the light, and it's so damn expensive, so grand, so irrational.

Like her ring.

"So I pressed the buzzer twice," she continues. "The second time, nothing happened again, so I stood outside in the snow for a while. But then..."

She falls silent.

Eren prompts for more. "But then…?"

Mikasa sighs, shaking her head. "Okay. This is where things get really weird."

Eren smiles again, because she's talking. Because she's sitting. Because she's_ here_. Because she hasn't left him yet and the way she inhales to keep on speaking makes his chest swell with a brilliant twinge of pride. _Yes, yes, yes_ please keep on talking. Keep staying. Keep doing whatever the hell you want—just as long as you stay. Stay with me. Stay.

"Okay," he says, bringing his '_**nice cup of shut the fuck up**__' _to his lips. Mikasa sees him take a sip before setting the mug back down on the counter top. The liquid inside it is a creamy, pale shade of brown, no doubt violated by questionable amounts of cream and sugar. It's how Eren's always liked to drink his coffee. (And to think he was always accusing _her_ of having a sweet tooth. Ha.)

He's eyeing her expectantly now, rubbing circles on his skin, blinking, waiting for her to go on.

Mikasa clears her throat to speak. Right.

"So, um, yeah. So then, the door—literally, the door just… opened. It opened out of nowhere."

"Are you serious?" Eren frowns, anchoring his hands over the edge of the counter top. His arms are stretched inside out, so that his elbows face him and the protruding veins traveling along his inner forearms face Mikasa.

_Oh, for the love of God._

She forces down a timid gulp of hot chocolate, ripping her eyes away. _Don't stare at him. Don't stare at him. __**Don't**_**— **"Yeah," she breathes, fixing her eyes on a stack of books piled up against the wall beside her. "I'm not kidding."

Eren's still frowning at her. She doesn't see this. "You mean, the thing just opened by itself?"

"Yea-up."

"That's odd."

Her gaze drops, a bit defeated. "I told you you wouldn't believe me."

"No, no. It's just…" He rubs the back of his neck, following her line of vision, staring at his own piled-up stack of old, worn-out books. "How could a door so heavy just open by itself?"

Mikasa shrugs, forcing her eyes to look at him, swigging down another gulp of the rapidly-dwindling drink. Her snout is hidden inside the mug, so that the only things peeking out at him are her gigantic, inky eyes. Her lashes flutter as she blinks, shrugs. "I dunno," and there's a hollowness to her voice, an echo within the cup.

"Hmm," is all Eren answers.

And he waits.

Waits and watches as she takes a long sip and then licks some whipped cream off the tippy top of her mouth, where her upper lip curves up into that glorious little cupid's bow. The sudden gesture makes Eren stare. It's such ancient Mikasa, that little move right there. Just like her tell-tale hand wringing when she's nervous, and her intimidatingly stoic neutral expressions (that sometimes even scare the shit out of _him_) and her little sighs and her little eye rolls (which are mostly graced in his presence) and even that tiny crease that pops out on the skin between her eyebrows when she's really mad (he always knew he was in deep shit when that crease came out), it has all been a part of her for as long as he can remember. It's all old and primal, etched into her soul.

And it's still there, in front of him. After all this time. Like nothing's even changed in her, even though so much actually has.

The way she licks whipped cream off the tippy top of her mouth reminds him of how she was when she was little.

The Prada purse slumped over his island reminds him she's not that little girl anymore, though.

Eren doesn't realize that he's ogling her. He doesn't notice his own eyes boring into her hands, into the way she holds his old _My Neighbor Totoro_ mug, admiring the swift rise of her finger as she brings it up to—

Oh, shit.

He's forced to blink his eyes away when she swipes it along her lip to clean off the remaining whipped cream residue—because he knows that she'll dip her finger into her mouth right after that to lick it off (remember, she's a very refined lady), because he knows his thoughts aren't going to a pleasant place right now, because he knows he needs to be more careful, _a lot_ more careful with her now. He can't just _be_. He's gotta_ think_. He's gotta measure himself around her. He's got to know exactly what he can and can't do.

And having naughty thoughts of her is most definitely **not** on the list of Acceptable Things to Do Around Mikasa. Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Stop it right there, Eren Jaeger. _Stop it._

He kinda wants to slap himself upside the head, to shake the thoughts out of his brain. It doesn't matter how badly they want to bludgeon their way into his mind, Eren can't (and shouldn't!) allow himself to do it. Just think of how awkward it would be if—_Aw__e_. _Aw__e__! __Look at that! __Why is she doing this to me?_ _Why?_

He watches—trying not to cringe under his own distress—as she takes another sip, and it all gets ten times fucking worse when there's a sheen, juicy bead of hot chocolate on her lower lip when she pulls the mug away. He almost wants to tell her, to urge her to clean that off too. To_ please, Mikasa, __g__et rid of __it. For my sanity's sake._

But she just looks at him. With those wide, inky eyes.

And he blinks his gaze away from her. Again.

_Pervert._

Shh.

_Pervert._

Shut up.

_Puuuurrrrrrrrrrrr-VERT!_

Ugh.

"I thought—" Her voice is raspy when she speaks again, a consequence of the hot chocolate. "I thought that maybe there's some weird high-tech thingy in this building or something. You know, that lets owners open the front door with a button?"

Eren snorts, smiling at her use of the word 'thingy'. "Nah, there's nothing like that here."

"No?"

"Nope. This building's old. Like, old-old. It's a miracle it hasn't fallen apart yet, actually."

"But then…" She thinks, puzzlement settling over her face. "How did…?"

"Beats me," he chimes, shrugging again, trying not to look at the bead of hot chocolate that still clings to her lip. "I mean, the buzzers _are_ messed up. Hitch and Sash got the names mixed up one night when they were drunk so maybe you weren't even pressing the right one. But the door just opening by itself? I've never heard of that happening before."

"There was no one there when I peeked inside," she adds, tracing a dark vein in the wooden counter top with her vision. "The thing literally just... opened up for me."

Eren shrugs again, his shoulders going up so high they press against his ears. _Don't look at her lips. Don't look at her lips. __**Don't**__— _"I dunno. I don't know what to tell you. That's never happened here, as far as I know."

Mikasa shakes her head incredulously, the bead of hot chocolate still glowing on her bottom lip. It's fucking blinding, the little shit.

"But that's… That's so weird."

Eren nods, scoffing. "Ye-heah."

"How can a door just…?"

"No idea."

"It's odd."

"Yep!"

"I'm confused."

"Ditto."

She holds a hand to her forehead, heaving out a breath. "Wow."

"I know," and Eren knocks back another swig of his coffee, just to force his own eyes off of her, and with a daunting flash he realizes that there's no more. He's drunken all of it. All of it.

It's gone.

He gapes at the empty, spacious insides of his mug. At the sad, scarce drops of coffee still left within and...

In front of him, Mikasa takes another diligent sip of hot chocolate. Slurp. Sip. Swallow. The tiny bead disappears from her lip (THANK YOU JESUS!) but a flake of whipped cream has stuck to her mouth again (AW, FUCK!) so she repeats that arduous, aloof procedure that leaves his jaw hanging slack.

Then her eyes land on him with benign curiosity. "You okay?"

Eren smiles, nods, says, "Yeah, yeah." But he's lying. He's lying 'cause he knows that being done with his drink before Mikasa's done with hers means that she'll feel like an imprudence. She's just— Ugh, she's just weird like that. So what's he supposed to do now? He can't _not _be drinking when_ she_ is. Knowing her, and the fragility of her entire existence at the moment, this will only make her feel like a fucking nuisance!

_So just pour yourself another cup, you dimwit._

But his body starts spazzing out when he has too much coffee!

_Just do it, you shit._

But—

_**Do it.**_

Before she can speak again, Eren turns around and waltzes over to the coffee maker, all the while feeling her eyes on his back like pin needles pricking him through his clothes.

She's watching him.

Haha. Shit.

"So..." he carols, and the splinter in his voice is dreadful, clearly giving off the silent debate he's having with himself. Too much caffeine makes him have awkward body spasms (not even joking you right now) but he'd rather twitch uncontrollably than have Mikasa feel like maybe it's a mistake to be here again. So yeah. Looks like more caffeine it is. _Fuck._

He sighs, honestly dreading the torture that his body will undergo in a few minutes as he continues. But, for her, he's willing to do it. For her, he's willing to do just about anything.

(It's only embarrassing if he blatantly tries to deny this fact.)

(He doesn't.)

"So doors just open up in your presence, huh?" There's a pause as reaches for the coffee pot. A fearful one. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Mikasa's gaze flitters around him in question, trying to see what he's up to, checking if he's done with his drink. But he's pouring more coffee into his cup__before she can come to any sort of conclusions.

Eren hears her sigh in her surrender.

_Fuck y__es__._ Right in time.

"No, I don't," she says, her voice suddenly very fluffy. Set free. He can almost hear the _ka-ching!_ of bonus minutes added to his time with her like extra currency. He turns around, finds her looking at him with expectant eyes. She's genuinely waiting for his answer.

A dainty smile twinkles on his mouth, and Mikasa can already tell where he's going with this. Her face is quickly falling flat before he even starts to whisper:

"You're the chosen one."

Viewing the way his eyebrows raise dramatically and his fingers twiddle in the air, her eyes squint down to coin slots. Her voice is toneless when she drones, with equal caustic fervor:

"You're an idiot."

And you would've thought she'd given him the greatest compliment. The smile he gives her is so bright, the impossible dimple by the corner of his mouth flares like a damn beacon, casting off a brilliant light. It's fucking blinding, that little shit. Mikasa stares at it for a moment before it disappears once he speaks again.

"I'll get someone to check it out," he decides whilst calmly violating his second cup of coffee with copious amounts of cream and sugar. "Maybe the door's broken or something, I 'unno."

It takes her a few seconds to process what he just said.

"Wait. You believe me?"

She sounds genuinely appalled, which makes Eren smirk to himself. He doesn't know she's blinking at him, gaping at the backside of his dark green T-shirt and watching the way his back muscles move underneath it as he shrugs.

"Well, I mean, yeah," and he says this casually, as if doors magically opening up by themselves were the most natural thing in the world. "Of course I do, Mikasa."

"But—" She's quiet for a second, frowning. "But, why?"

The way he turns around then, the way he looks at her, it's as if to say that he'd be foolish not to, that _she'd_ be foolish to expected him to do anything but. It's a highly improbable story—Mikasa can hardly believe it herself. And yet there's Eren staring at her with those green orbs carved from all the honesty in the world and he's telling her, "Well, you're here aren't you?"

And the question makes her hesitate. It makes her stop and breathe and hesitate because, "Yes. Yes, I am."

And then Eren's smiling again, unveiling that pearly row of straight teeth, that blinding dimple that sometimes makes her dizzy and that sparkling shimmer—that tremulous light glinting in his eyes.

Fucking hell.

Mikasa sighs.

Is there a logical, reasonable explanation to what she feels right now? Because the way he smiles at her sometimes..._touches _her. Like it— Like it holds her, or something. Right now, it shrouds her like a blanket or... or a warm embrace. Yeah. Right. Something like that.

She feels his joy as if it'd reached out of him to graze her with its non-existent touch. It leaves her skin prickling. It leaves her brain turned to goo. It leaves her staring at the contents of her mug, searching for any kind of solace that could be held within. It leaves her gawking, praying.

_God. Please. Help me._

"Anyways." Eren swivels around in his heels to reclaim his spot by the island. Steam wafts off his mug like smoke rising from a pan. He puckers his lips to blow at it, and the wisps of smoke undulate away from him, swaying forth like waves, fleeing from his mouth.

Mikasa finds herself staring.

Mikasa finds herself blinking her eyes away.

_Don't look at his lips don't look at his lips don'tlookathisfuckinglipssweetmotherof—_

"So how have you been?"

Surprised, she looks at him, realizing that it's been a very long time since she last heard anyone ask her that. It's so suddenly refreshing, to hear those words. _How are you? How have you been?_ Such simple questions and yet she hasn't heard them in so long.

She's forgotten how to answer, it seems. She glances up at the ceiling, at ground, at the cup of coffee in his hands, at the steam that still rises, dancing in the air. At his wispy, messy locks of brown—

Nope.

No looking at that either.

"Good," she says eventually, deciding that answer should suffice. "And you?"

The smug bastard smiles at her again, all suave and whatnot when he boasts, "_W__onderful._"

"Oh, that's nice." _You __complacent__ little __turd__._

He props his elbows on the counter top again, leaning in so close that Mikasa catches another whiff of his earthy, citrus-y scent. His lashes are drawn heavily over his eyes, flitting subtly as he blinks and thinks and ponders and_ s__weet God in Heaven __I told you to __help me help me__ HELP—_

"Ssssoooooo..." he drags the word out heavily. The constellations of golden specks in his irises glow as he peers up at her, stars that twinkle in the eternal green night of his eyes. "And how's your fiancé doing?"

"Hmm?"

He acknowledges the presence of her ring, giving it a small nod before sipping some more of his coffee.

"Your fiancé." Slurp. Sip. Swallow. "How is he?"

"He's great!" she gushes out, hardly breathing in the process.

Eren nods. "That's good."

"Mhm."

The silence that follows only lasts a second, for Mikasa's quickly taking in a breath to disrupt its discomforting presence.

"He's uh… He's at work right now."

"Oh." Eren's brows raise to the top of his head. "On a Sunday?"

He sees the way her eyes wince, clings to the nuance that drops in her tone when she answers, "Yes..."

"That's very interesting." Another sip. Studious. Thoughtful. "Does he always work on Sundays?"

Mikasa traces the rim of her cup with the tip of her finger, following the circles she's drawing with her eyes. Eren stares at her nails as she speaks. "Not always, no."

"Hmm." His eyes ascend to meet her, then adapt a gradual descend down the features of her face, absorbing every curve and shape and point, searching every corner and crevice for a hint of disappointment or frustration but finding nothing. Her expression is cool as stone.

Still, Eren keeps on pushing.

"That's a nice ring," he adds, watching the way she perks up at the comment.

"Oh, thank you," she smiles, but then she offers nothing more.

He observes her, taking another long gulp, eyeing the pointy tip of her nose, the cupid's bow on the top of her mouth, the subtle curves of her lips, the careful arches of her brows, her fair milky complexion and thinking of how once, long ago, she used to remind him of the very seasons outside. Today, she's winter. Her face is so pure and white, the pink pads of her lips seem like petals fallen onto the snow, specks of her lip gloss glistening like morning dew.

Eren wonders if this fiancé of hers ever bothers to swoon over these simple features, to marvel at the effortless perfection of his future wife. If he doesn't, he decides, then the guy's a fucking idiot.

"It's... like, huge." The ring, he means.

"I know."

"How long?"

"How long have we been engaged?"

"_Mmmh__hmm__m_."

"Oh." Mikasa lets out a sigh. "Uh, almost a month?"

"'Almost'?"

"Huh?"

"'Almost' a month?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah." She clears her throat, glancing at her ring. The topic clearly makes her uncomfortable for some reason. "Yes. A month. We've been engaged for about a month now."

"Really?" Eren scratches the corner of his eye. "Wow."

"Yeah," she smiles, but it feels forced. Something tells him that he should stop now, that he shouldn't keep prodding her like this.

Still, he pushes just a little farther.

"That's not so long, you know… Only a month."

Mikasa shakes her head, taking a deep breath. He watches the way her chest expands at the inhale, how it rises before it heaves and falls again. "Yeah, no. It's not. We only dated for a year before that."

"A year?"

"Yeah-hum."

"Interesting."

"And you?"

He smiles, one of his hands flying over to hold his upper arm. "And me what?"

"What about your…" she starts, but soon drops her gaze to the _My Neighbor Totoro _mug before her, tracing the rim once again, only this time with her eyes instead of her finger. Her lashes are heavy and dense, those fucking awnings that hang over her face and cast a shadow across her features. Eren's smile only broadens when she looks at him. Her voice is soft, so soft that it tickles when she whispers, "Oh, you know..."

Eren finishes for her. "Love life?"

Mikasa chuckles. He would've thought it sounded nervous if it didn't make him feel so at ease with himself instead. Something about her laugh… there's just something about it. He can't seem to get enough.

"Sure," she gives, taking another gulp of her hot chocolate, which has, tragically enough, chilled to room temperature now. The whipped cream no longer even exists, all melted into the liquid. Gone. This saddens her tremendously, but she comes to terms with the loss. In this harsh world, all good things must end event—

Although she _could_ just pour herself some more. Like, the can _is _sitting right in front of her. But Eren's quiet before her, standing, lost in his own coffee-sipping trance. She doesn't feel like disrupting the silence this time. She just feels like watching him. Watching him think.

Slurp.

Sip.

Sip.

Wait, what comes after that?

Her eyes stare as a wad of coffee travels down his throat. His broad shoulders grow even wider as he ingests a large clump of air.

"It's interesting enough," he shrugs dismissively, but the mug he brings up to his mouth is quickly bolting away from him when he adds—almost corrects, "I mean, I have a girlfriend."

"Oh?" Mikasa's eyes enlarge, genuinely taken aback by his answer. "Really?" Not at all what she expected, to be honest. Not at all.

She blinks at him, waiting for him to say more. _Hoping_ that he'll say more.

But Eren only shrugs again, not giving anything more than a simple and altogether-bland "yup."

Mikasa plants her eyes on him. _Is he lying to me? _His hair is so long that it covers the tips of his ears, so she's unable to see if they're burning red like they always do when he's being untruthful. She can't help herself. She's curious now.

"Is it…?" She motions to the door, and it takes Eren a few jaded seconds to realize who she's talking about.

"You mean, is it Hitch?"

She nods, a bit sheepish, jumping at the loud snort that erupts out of his nose. Eren's face contorts into a grimace, scrunching up his face.

"Oh, no." He shakes his head almost vigorously. "No way."

"No?"

"No, no_._" And there's that passionate head shake again. That downright disgusted look. "Oh, God. Hell no."

"But—" Mikasa frowns confused. "But, then why…?" She seems perplexed, a coy thumb rising up to point to the door and she's genuinely puzzled, trying to piece it all together: the neon underwear, the hickeys, the splayed sheets atop his bed, _the way she wore his fucking dress shirt?_ _Hello?! _Because none of it makes sense if he's not dating her. None of it makes any darn sense! Why is he sticking his dick inside her if he's not—

Oh.

OH.

Suddenly, the haziness of it all clears over with understanding. Eren tries not to laugh at her perturbed expression, at the faint blush appearing on her cheeks. His bottom lip clenches between his teeth. He bites back his amusement.

Mikasa's eyes are wide, staring off into the distance, and there's a hint of horror in her face.

Okay, Eren's having a lot of trouble holding in his laughter now.

"Oh. Wow."

"Indeed," he chokes.

"I…" Her eyes reach up to the ceiling, looking for consolation, repentance, Jesus, something along that. "I see."

"Yeah."

"That's just… Oh, my."

And he breaks. He sniggers. He can't help it! Not with the way she's holding a hand to her cheek like she's just witnessed an atrocity. Not with the way her eyes stretch wide open, staring into space in _shock_.

Eren shakes his head, smirking. "Yeah, no. It's not like that with Hitch."

Mikasa squints her eyes at him, his words shooting around like torpedoes in her head, bouncing off the walls before colliding and exploding. Her eyes narrow even more.

She understands.

_It's not like that with Hitch._

Translation:_ "_We just fuck."

Revised translation: "We just fuck even though I have a girlfriend."

Re-revised translation: "We just fuck even though I have a girlfriend because _**I cheat on her sometimes.**_"

Eren draws his mug up to his lips, offering a her guilty shrug of his shoulders, some strands of his hair falling over his eyes and making him look like a kid who's just gotten into trouble. She half expects him to fucking wink at her just to make matters even worse. He doesn't, though. Thank God.

He just keeps on smirking. At himself, at the glorious accomplishments of his love life, at the fact that he's a complacent little turd. He runs a hand through his hair, the smirk on his mouth cracking open to reveal his dimple. He smiles at her.

Mikasa's immediate, unbidden thoughts:_ Oh, shit._

She forces down the last bit of hot chocolate in one long gulp, mostly just to ease the sudden tension in the air. But it doesn't work. She's shaken. Flustered.

Dumbfounded.

Awestruck.

_What the fuck?_

Seriously, just— Is he serious, right now? He's got a girlfriend _and_ another girl on the side! What the crap is that? Since when is he even like this? Since when?! This is probably what she meant by their lives being the complete and total opposite. Never, never, never in a million years would Mikasa even fathom doing such a thing. Having a partner _and_ a fuck buddy? It just makes no sense. Fucking preposterous!

She can't help wondering even more what his life must be like now. In this place—this very place—he was just doing who knows what with that girl Hitch while having serious ties with someone else (poor woman, whomever she may be). The proof is written all over the place, filling every room of his apartment, screaming _cheater, cheater, cheater! __Two-timer! PIG! _Talk about a complete 180 from the Eren she remembers. Eugh. Shudder. So he fucks his neighbor while he's got his girl on the side? EUGH. SHUDDER. In fact, God knows what those two were just doing in here a few moments ago. Judging by the discombobulated bed sheets, they probably did it on the bed—but yet somehow her panties ended up miraculously strewn over the lamp shade in the living room? So maybe not even there? Or do they just toss their clothing around like a bunch of crazies sprinkling confetti in the air in celebration? Maybe they just didn't even do it on the bed at all. Maybe they just go wherever, you know? Wherever, whenever. Wild, whimsical sex. On the lamp shade, on the floor, in the kitchen, against the walls, by the—

Oh.

Oh, my God.

Wait.

_WHAT IF THEY'VE DONE IT ON THE ISLAND?!_

Mikasa snaps her hands away from the counter top, bringing them to her chest, gasping.

Eren sees this. He's going to ask her what's wrong but—

An earthquake. A tremor. It shakes the entire world.

Suddenly, Eren's body fucking somersaults within itself in a furious spasm. His eyes flare wide. He panics. _Oh, shit._

**THE TWITCHING HAS BEGUN.**

The coffee shoots straight up in the mug, practically flying up completely before landing back inside it with a squelching, liquid-y _pl__o__op. _There's a few drops splattering onto the tiled kitchen floor beneath him, some even trickling down his hand. Drip. Drip._ Ploop_. There's utter, extreme silence. Neither of them make a noise. They stare at each other, wide-eyed, shocked, speechless.

And then, suddenly—

"_BA__H__AHAHA__HHAHAA__!_"

Mikasa explodes.

She starts laughing, and it's fruity. Loud.

_Amazing._

That exclamatory_ ha-__ha__!_ that bursts into Eren's ears and fills them to the brim. He jumps, taken aback by the way she bursts into a frenzy of breathless chortles and nearly keels over the counter in tears.

She slaps a hand across her mouth, trying not to laugh even harder at the way he holds a hand to his chest, baffled, his green eyes aghast and mouth hanging ajar in his amazement. She doesn't know if he's more surprised by the way his heart nearly popped out of him from that twitch or if he's just terrified because of how she's laughing but—still chortling—she decides it's probably both.

She chokes a little, removing her hand from her mouth to apologize in small, hasty whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" and Eren sighs, seriously at war with himself not to crack into a smile at the way she giggles, covering her mouth, breathing out her pretty little words. "Oh, I didn't mean to laugh! It's just—"

"It's fi—" He tries to speak, but a second spasm cuts him short, shaking up his entire body with a violent jerk. Instinctively, he curses, grinding his eyes shut, spitting under his breath. "Oh my fuck."

And Mikasa's breaking into laughter again, her eyes disappearing into her face. She holds a hand to her tummy, nearly falling off the damn chair, cackling like she's just heard the funniest joke in her entire life. Jesus Christ. Eren scoffs, shaking his head, astonished. _Jesus Christ._

He almost can't believe the sight before him. She's laughing so hard! He hasn't seen her like this before—not in ages. He doesn't even know how to react. To be honest, he's even starting to get a little worried.

"Um, Mikasa?"

"I just— I just—" She can't talk. She's laughing so hard she's practically wheezing, the poor woman. "I'm so sorry, oh my God. So sorry, Eren, I just—"

She balls her fists over the island, falling forward like a drunk, her shoulders shaking with every suppressed snort and snicker as she lets her head wilt in between her arms in defeat, hiding the blissful expression of her laughter twisting up her face. Eren goggles at the back of her neck as she trembles for a few seconds, giggling and snorting like a little girl.

"Jesus," he breathes after a moment, worried that she might pee herself if she doesn't stop. "What is wrong with you?"

"It's just— Your face! The face you just made, Eren! I just—" She starts laughing again. And then, he can't fight it, he does too. She's cackling like she's crazy. He's chuckling nervously like he's scared. This woman seriously has the most concerning sense of humor. It's incredible.

A few moments later, Mikasa falls back into her seat, breathless. "Aahhhhh, I can't. I can't."

She shakes her head, covering her face with her hands, hiding the pretty, childish blush that has spread across her cheeks—a consequence of all the energy she's just burned, probably.

_He's _the one that's suddenly breathless now, gaping at her, blown away by how beautiful she is, by how freely she's giggling and smiling, by the little charcoal-colored strands that have fallen out of her bun and her chipped nail polish and her chest and by the way it heaves and bloats and shakes and just— Just_—_

_H__oly _ _fuck_ _._

Mikasa takes a few deep breaths, recomposing herself, bringing a hand down to her heart, holding the other to her cheek, clearly surprised by herself. Her chest rises and falls in between her sighs, in between every blissful inhale and exhale and whispered apology. "I'm sorry, Eren."

"Don't apologize," he tells her, and he's pretty fucking confident his cheeks are burning bright, cherry-red right about now. His entire body feels hot, suffocated under a thick blanket. It's like her laughter just… reached right out of her and grabbed him by the neck or something, strangling him in its non-existent grasp.

He's stunned.

He sees her re-adjust her shirt, which has rucked over her shoulders and rolled up by the sleeves, wallowing in the scratchy sounds of her nails scraping her arms and ribs over the black cotton fabric. Her collarbones are punctuated, peeking out of her skin. And, it may just be the fact that black is slimming or some shit like that, but her arms look really lanky, all of a sudden. And now that he notices… so do her hands. And her fingers. And her face. And her neck looks... longer. Thinner?

Wait.

He feels a prickle in his heart.

A very painful one.

Dauntingly, Eren realizes that something's definitely gone wrong. He blinks at her, her laughter still ringing in his ears, the dark realization of why she seems so small and thin to him punching him square in the face. He blinks again. All her giggles dissipate to nothing once he realizes:

Mikasa's lost weight.

And a lot of it.

_But why?!_

Even her breasts look smaller, for crying out loud! The curves drawn around their swells are smoother, not as full, not as round_. __And__ her fucking chin's grown __tinier __too__! _It looks pointier. Sharper. _Drained._ Like the juice has been sucked out of her. Like the fullness that once filled her points and edges has been squeezed right out of them like rain wrung out of plump clouds!

What.

The.

Fuck.

(?!)

He doesn't get it. Why is she suddenly so small now? So thin? And _s__horter? _Like she's shrunk. Like she's waned in size and strength and withered altogether. A grand, fierce assembly of a human being, shrunken down to a feeble girl with thin fingers and lanky arms.

There's another prickle. A stab.

Eren's distress burgeons, weeds that latch onto his flesh and itch and scratch and burn.

Her fiancé. _What's he do__ing_ _ to her?_

Why has he let her grow this thin? Does he not realize she's not meant to be this way? Does he not notice the way her cheekbones poke out of her skin? That her arms shouldn't look like fucking noodles?! It's all so wrong. So wrong, so wrong, and he doesn't understand it. How come he's only noticing this now, too? How come he didn't notice this the very first time he saw her? When she bounced right off him and landed in his arms and looked up at him and said it. His name. She'd brought him back to life again.

She's so different. He can't help it. He can't stop.

Suddenly, hesees.

Him.

Her.

The night she left him.

How she'd looked then, how she looks now, how _they're total opposites._

She's so distant now. So distant that he's scared that if he reaches out to touch her, he'll find nothing. A specter. The haunting dread of his fingers passing right through her, of her spilling through the cracks, disappearing before his eyes, dispersing into the air and vanishing like nothing. A dream. Nothing.

But the girl from that night had been so vivid, so real—his entirely. She'd smiled like this. She'd laughed just like that. She's turned that brilliant shade of red from her giggles and from—

The thoughts come.

He's taken back. Swallowed into a vortex. Spat right back out into his past.

It all happens in an instant.

Suddenly, irrevocably, Eren only sees—

—_Mikasa._

_P__erfect, _ _so _ _prefect, shaking underneath him, splayed open on his bed, bared in all her vulnerability. Saying that she loved him, that she'd never leave, that she'd stay with him forever. A promise. A vow._

"_Always, Eren. I'll always be with you."_

_She'd stabbed the words into his heart, perched them up like a statue. Held them there. Held him._

_Whispers between kisses, messy, mumbled words, declarations of 'I want you' uttered and pronounced, laced with truth and strength and iron, engraved into their skins, their flesh, their backs. A promise painted on the walls of their home, released into the world around them. Declarations that were shouted to the sky, proclaimed out to the heavens: I want you. I'm yours. You're mine. We're together. We have nothing left to fear anymore. Their breaths twirling in the air around them, flowing from their lungs, fueling them and tying them together. Joining them. As one. Half-lidded stares out glazed-over eyes, hands that shook and trembled, that surveyed for each other in the night. That never rested until they found each other and everything was okay._

_They were safe._

_They were home._

_They were together._

Eren gasps, swallowing a thin slice of air.

Oh, no.

This can't be happening. Not now. _Not now._

He closes his eyes.

His chest hurts.

He can't see. He can't see anything but—

—_The moonlight._

_So vibrant, so alive, throbbing with colors and scents and pooling on her skin, glistening like silver on her sweat. The entirety of her existence—so ethereal, so angelical, far too much than what he'll ever deserve. The milky smoothness of her face, the tautness of her thighs, the familiarity of her smell, her warmth. His sanctuary. The haven hidden in her arms, blossoming like flowers that burgeoned all around him. A garden. In her sighs the very colors of his life. The muscles that clenched and unclenched as they rode to a crescendo, that coiled all throughout as they reached their peaks._

_Once._

_Twice._

_Three times over._

_He could make love to her forever. He swore, he swore, he swore. Eren promised himself that he would. Love her. Keep her. Cherish her until the end of his days. With every breath and palpitation, with every beat within his chest, with every ounce of his being._

_Till death._

_Till death do them part._

Ohhhh.

ShhhhiiiiiiIIIIIIITTTTTT.

He's feeling sick!

Mikasa's clueless to what's happening to him.

She stares at the snow falling outside. He thinks he can see the flakes reflected in her irises.

"I don't know why you're having another cup of coffee, Eren. You know how your body gets."

And there's a smile on her lips, a faraway look in her gaze, the snow flakes melting into the ink pools of her eyes. She isn't looking at him.

He can't breathe.

He's clobbered by the way she says—

—_His name._

_Sobbed into his shoulder, grazed onto his skin with her teeth, breaking free to arch back, to be gasped. She'd felt so strong, so welcoming, so amazing, so pure. His home. The sole purpose of his existence. Her promise, floating around them in the dense, panted air. Always. Always. Always._

_Always._

_I will always be with you._

_He was so sure. So sure, so sure. She promised him. The truth weighed heavily in his bones, bubbling up the surface of his skin, boiling like water that evaporated into the stutters that formed at the tops of his lungs. The truth. She never lied to him. Never._

_Mikasa wouldn't lie._

_Not to him._

_She wouldn't._

_He was so sure. So sure, so sure._

_The entire night etched itself into his brain: the stars, the moon, the pillows thrown right off the bed. All little things that hung over his head on strings. Never to be forgotten, never to let him rest. He'd be haunted by their plague, by the tragedy of that night._

_The beauty._

_By the saltiness of her sweat on his tongue. The taste of her lips, her neck, her belly. The shapes of her breasts, their fullness; how they'd filled his hands, his mouth, his eyes. Constants. Things about her that would never change. He'd memorized her shape entirely, her curves, learned the dips and slopes and edges of her body. So much so that he would be able to find them blindingly in the night with his eyes closed; feel her breath against his neck and catch the quiver of her skin and know he'd found a sweet spot, a tender point in her he craved._

Mikasa's smiling. Still.

Scratching her shoulder.

Shaking her head.

Smiling.

Eren's hit with how she looked back then, how she'd felt, and it's suddenly become much harder not to see right through her clothes. Not to think of how she'd tasted, how she'd smelled. Of currants and raspberries. Ancient, inexplicable Mikasa. Ancient and old and his.

The images in his head only worsen. A tsunami. He stands helpless on the shore as it comes and takes him. It crashes into him, pulls him in, drags him under.

He's swept off into the current.

Drowned.

He looks away from her.

Helpless. So helpless.

He looks away.

_She'd looked so right._

_Everything about her had been so right that night, the only right in his world of constant wrongs._

_There had been her skin, plucking over with goosebumps under his touch. He had been gentle, he had taken his time. Clothes fell off their bodies in layers, barricades that fell bit by bit, barriers that crumbled only gradually, not all at once. They shed their worries off along with their garments, until the only thing left between them was her skin, her panties, and a navy-colored bra. Her eyes had sparked with tenderness and love, an eternal care for him. The little smile she'd given him when his fingers tickled on her back had granted him permission, told him it was okay, to keep going. His stomach clenched, suddenly nervous._

_They hadn't done this in so long._

_Her voice was light and airy, small sighs that passed through her lips as he slipped off what was left on her. First, it had been her bra: a cheap, simple thing she'd owned since High School. It was small on her now, her breasts practically spilled out of the cups. He'd kissed their overflowing swells as he worked on the fastenings, thought of how they'd grown much bigger in the past few months so that most of her shirts fit her uncomfortably and he would hear curse under her breath a little more than usual (which wasn't much to begin with). He'd spent days relishing the sight of her, watching in amusement as she struggled to stuff them in "these damned, stupid things!" she called her bras. She was always fretting over their size. They made her life impossible, got in the way of everything and made the perverts stare. She rushed and raced to hide them, said she couldn't understand why they still wouldn't go away. The words had scratched him at the back of his head, reminded him of their loss, of violent shakes to wake him in the middle of the night and streaks of blood staining the bed sheets. The terrible look on her face when—_

Stop.

Please.

His eyes scrunch shut, the adrenaline pumping into his body all at once, spurring and mixing and burning and hissing and—

He opens his eyes.

Sees her.

He's not looking at her. He's staring at the cup of coffee in his hand, at the rivulets that trickle down his fingers. He's not looking at her.

And yet he sees her.

How?

Are her eyes fixed on him?

Is she watching him?

He hopes not. He hopes.

It all gets worse.

Worse.

He drowns.

Drowns.

He's a coward. He doesn't look at her. He can't bring himself to meet—

—_Her eyes._

_Staring at him as he flung the worn-out little thing to the side, useless piece of clothing to be retrieved later. And they'd done that so many times before. Their clothes had flown across countless rooms, landed over countless floors, fell around them in their passion and yet there she was, lying on her back with her arms thrown above her head, looking at him, smiling, and Eren was still unsure of whether what he saw breathing right in front of him was actually real or not. She had such an amazing smile. A smile made for the gods._

_And it made her look so young to him, all of a sudden. Fifteen, sixteen. Not nineteen._

_Not anymore._

_He watched her breathe._

_Her chest, bare now, rose and fell in a slow cadence. Perfect, gentle breaths puffing out her lips, nervous little glances shot his way as he surveyed her with his eyes, admiring her neck and chest and collarbones and the pinkness blooming in her cheeks, flushing, and her lips, trapped between her teeth in nervousness—and before he knew it, he was touching her, feeling her breathe under his fingertips, running his thumb across her bottom lip and holding his breath as she kissed it, as his fingers ventured lower and reached the space right in between her breasts._

_He leaned in, landing one kiss—one, chaste—to the skin there, feeling her sigh for a moment before pulling back just to look at her, to absorb the exquisite sight of her face, of the bosoms that had increased in size along with other specific parts of her, things about herself she'd grown to hate but that only made him love her even more. He thought with delight of what she'd do right then if he told her, smirked at her and told her she'd grown a great pair of tits. Probably ram her fist into his mouth, he figured—he'd already seen her rip a bra in half in her rage a few nights before. He stared at her, stared at her. Stared at his gorgeous, incredible wife and felt a part of himself die at the ethereal light radiating off her; so placid and serene were her splendid little breaths and her nipples were perked and pink and ready for him and he was so madly in love with her, so fucking deep in crazy stupid love with her it was nuts._

_He hadn't taken her immediately, instead just marveled, watched, felt himself go painfully hard at the sight of her, his teeth stabbing into his bottom lip, just like hers, but for a whole different reason. Mikasa had laughed, a breath, covering her face in her embarrassment. He'd captured her hands, kissed them, looked at the black, forever-chipping nail polish of her nails and the scratch below her eye and told her she was beautiful. She'd turned a little red. He'd told her that he meant it. With all his heart, meant it. It never took much to remind him she was the most beautiful woman in the entire world._

_She'd looked at him, smirking, waiting for his move. A challenge. He loved those. He loved it when she looked at him like that. He'd started by her face, planting kisses on each one of her features. Her forehead, her nose, her eyelids, her chin. He'd lingered by her lips, nipped at them and heard her hum, licked her cheek and heard her giggle._

"_What the heck?" she'd laughed, the greatest sound in the whole universe right there. Her laugh._

"_I thought you liked it when I licked you," was his response. He'd bit his lip again, smiling at the way she wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and rolled her eyes at him._

"_Yeah." And she'd turned a little redder. "But not_ there_."_

"_Oh. I'm sorry. Where, then?"_

_Another gorgeous sound. She groaned at him in frustration._

_It made him titter like a fool._

_There were the careful seconds spent admiring her, his attention loitering for a while on the spaces just around her lips. They had time. They had time. Time stood still when they were kissing. The earth stopped spinning when his mouth reached south. The air grew thinner when a gasp from her lips held his right in place, just above the pulse point of her neck. _ _It didn't take long before they were ghosting over the curves of her shoulders, hands lightly working up her sides, feeling how soft and smooth and warm she was. A little prelude to what was ahead wa __s the patient way she watched him, while naughty thoughts danced in his mind and he contemplated all the different ways to tease her. She'd bitten her lip in anticipation when there was no more skin left on her chest for him to rediscover, when what was next was, hopefully, his paying attention to something else. Something a little more… sensitive, if you will._

_She'd watched in silence as he placed his mouth over her right breast and held it just above the peak, opening it slowly, breath all hot and enticing on her nipple, tongue reaching out to touch her but—_

_He stopped, looked up at her, smiled._

_Mikasa groaned again._

_Her breath hitched when he kissed her, though, right there, on the point of her peak. But he told her to have patience, that they had time. He told her—kissing the other one as well—that they had time, they had time, they had time._

_Time, time, time._

_Somehow, he had ignored the notion that perhaps she knew better._

_Neither of them said anything more, because then came her panties: white and flimsy, a pink little bow adorning the waistline, tiny red hearts dotted all over the fabric; cute, baby-ish designs that had Eren smiling to himself again. He chuckled once he recognized them. He'd only seen her wear them once before._

_When he'd pointed them out to her, she'd covered her face again, told him to "just take them off already" and "stop, no, don't stare at them, don't". He'd kissed her lips for the twentieth time, snorting at how embarrassed she was that he'd caught her wearing mismatched underwear, like he actually gave a shit about that kind of stuff._

"_I didn't know you still owned these."_

"_Shut up."_

"_They're cute."_

"_Stop."_

"_I like them."_

"_You're just saying that 'cause they're what I wore the first time we—"_

_A gasp from her own lips interrupted her as he slid his fingers down the front of them, red, tiny hearts swimming and bulging around the sudden intrusion of his hand. Her eyelids fluttered shut, mouth flew open, face morphed into that angelical expression that made every part of him melt._

_He smirked, forever finishing her sentences. "Had sex?"_

"_Mhm."_

"_So?" His hand hardly moved against her, but her hips were already hasty and impatient, urging him to move a little more, a little faster. She opened her eyes in her frustration. He still wouldn't budge."What's wrong with that?"_

_She slunk her hand right over his to marionette his movements and force him to move. For a moment, though, he let her. He let her move his hand against her just the way she wanted, just to see her close her eyes and stretch her neck back and sigh. He saw her throat bob a little as she swallowed, then he moved his fingers a bit more, completely on his own, watching her chest heave with deeper breaths. Her hips ground up to meet him, to rub him more against her, to feel him more and more and more. A foreign kind of desperation. He'd never seen it on her before._

_He didn't bother questioning it, either._

_Her voice was raspy when she spoke again, threatening to turn into the moan that grew tighter and tighter inside her. Eren smiled real fucking bright at that, even more so when her words came out all laced wonderfully with pants._

"_So you're opinion… is unfortunately… invalid."_

"_Invalid?"_

"_Yea-up."_

_Eren's grin only broadened. His eyes were green and blue and wicked. "Oh, that's not fair."_

"_It's—"_

_He pressed his hand to her sensitive bundle of nerves. Pressed hard. Had her cursing out and gasping. He couldn't help but relish in that. Hearing her curse was like witnessing an oddity. An oddity he'd learned to love_—_especially if his name followed._

"_F-fuck, Eren."_

"_What?"_

"_Stop it."_

"_Stop what?"_

"_Stop teasing me."_

"_Am not."_

"_Oh, you really—"_

_He did it again._

_He had her gasping louder, covering her mouth, blushing furiously."I'm sorry, what was that?" The smile on him was positively evil. He saw her eyes snap open, glaring at him, her cheeks splattered with blotches of deep crimson and lips bruised from all their kissing and all her biting._

_His tiny dimple flashed._

_The crease between her eyebrows popped out. She scowled at him._

"_I hate you."_

"_Oh?"_

"_I—"_

_He slipped a single finger inside her, licked his lips at the way she arched and forgot everything she was just about to say. His voice was a lot thicker all of a sudden, syrupy and oozing into her ear as he leaned in close—real, real close—to taunt her._

"_Say that again."_

_She pressed the words to his neck, pressed them hard so he would hear her._

"_I. Hate. You."_

_But the way she hummed and smirked at him all begged to differ. Still, he slipped his finger right out, and she looked at him, surprised, her lips parting to protest but then he'd given her more. He pushed both his middle and ring finger inside her and ground his palm against her clit, watching her slump back and sink into the bed with her mouth blown wide open like she didn't know whether to gasp or moan or scream or what. His fingers moved deftly within her, pumping in and out, curling, teasing her in the most beautiful of ways. They moved and he rubbed and they moved until he was pulling groans out of her like flowers from a field. Soon, his name was being breathed and bitten back to be contained inside her mouth._

_He couldn't help it._

_He couldn't help but stare, couldn't bring himself to look away from her. His gaze was cemented to her face. He watched her. Watched her squirm and wilt and wither underneath him. He'd never seen anything look so fucking perfect as it fell apart. He loved being the only one who ever got to see her that way, the only man in the entire world who ever had. Her first. Her only. _ _Her always._

_Despite her noises, the world around them was completely still. There was such abyssal silence outside their home that it was as if the entire world had quieted in reverence, as if the universe had agreed with the planet to halt the course of all living things and stop everything right on its tracks. Just for them. Just so that the night could be eternal—and it felt like it was. It felt like it would never end. There was nothing but him, her, the noises she emitted._

_And the words that fell right out of his mouth._

"_I love you, though."_

_They spilled out clumsily and fervently, gushing out like too much water held inside too little space. But still, Eren felt no shame in pronouncing them. He felt no shame in uttering his purpose, his truth._

_And then, slowly, Mikasa opened her eyes. Hazy, onyx orbs slid open, looking at him. Still panting, still red, her lips frozen around his name… she looked at him. Just looked at him._

_He smoothed her hair back with his free hand, tucking some silken locks behind her ear, saying the words again; saying them loud and clear so she would hear him._

"_I love you, Mikasa."_

_And then, slowly, she smiled at him. The silence around them was so intense that it was loud—if such a thing were even possible. It was so intense that one might hear the tremulous light of the stars, feel their crying and their buzzing and their ancient millennium songs. Stories made from years that can't be fathomed and yet all were felt within their hearts, because their love was that tremendous. With such passion he admired her. With such splendor she smiled at him._

_He'd never forget how she gasped and beamed and told him, all breathless and red and spectacular:_

"_I do, too."_

_I do, too._

_He held his forehead to hers, clammy and sticky with sweat but he didn't care. Strands of his chocolate hair stuck to her skin, his mouth just adjacent to hers and he whispered, "Stay with me."_

_Her promise had been quick. "Always."_

_Eren sighed. He sighed in bliss and relief and happiness, but also in pain and dread and doubt. He kissed her lips, breathed them in, inhaled her scent and respired deeply against her._

"_Say that again."_

"_Always, Eren. I will always be with you."_

Make it stop.

Please, God, make it stop.

The thoughts, the thoughts, the fucking thoughts.

They won't end. They won't leave him. They won't stop.

In front of him, Mikasa bites back another glorious giggle.

His mouth purses into a taut line.

Eren wants to scream.

To press his hands to his ears, to stop all the memories from getting even worse but they come prowling, they come screaming, ear-splitting screeches that hit him all at once. Wailing. Wailing. He can't stop them. He can't stop.

They consume him.

Eat him up.

He wants to scream.

To cry.

Let it end. Let it end. Make it stop, please, let it end.

The girl holds a hand up to her chest, sighing, breathing out his name.

"Oh, Eren."

She's killing him.

She's killing him.

_He'd never felt so alive._

_His mouth had already reached down past her naval, kissing the little pink bow on her panties, tracing some of the tiny red hearts with the tip of his tongue. He heard her scoff and giggle, body trembling underneath him as she laughed. He didn't say another word. He didn't even look back up at her._

_Instead, he pressed his tongue against her, right there on her center, to that spot that made her weak and kissed her through her clothes. Kissed her once, twice—just a bit lower—and then just that was enough, just that was enough to make her shiver. He took in that smell that was purely Mikasa, her panties rich with her currants with raspberries scent, inexplicable and perfect and mixed with a tinge of vanilla from the humble lotion on her skin. Soon, his desire for her was overtaking him. He'd felt the heat pooling in his abdomen, her fingers gliding through his hair, the attentive way she watched him and known that she was waiting. Overwhelmed, he couldn't stop. His body thirsted and ached, his hands grew cold and greedy. He wanted her. He wanted her. He wanted her._

_So he took her underwear right off her in a flash, in a moment kissed his way up her one leg, and before she knew it he'd flung it over his shoulder and entered her all nice and rough. She'd been shocked into such a state of euphoria, staring at him with her wide, inky eyes and gasping once she felt how deep he'd gone inside her with just his first thrust; going even deeper when he pushed her leg up by her thigh and gave his second, his third, shifting his weight forward so that his fourth filled her completely and then they were both crying out, they were both closing their eyes and dissolving into the sweet rapture of becoming one, making up for lost time together by making love. They clung feverishly to one another, held on tightly like they would both disappear if they didn't hold on tight enough, and then everything would end._

_A gust of wind entered the room then, cool whispers that flew in from the open window. It blew quietly on their skins, attempting to dry the beads of sweat that formed along their bodies. But it failed. Soon, drops of him were landing on her, and she'd felt his sweat mixing with her own, felt it fuse and form into the sweet, musky scent of their love making. She'd never fancied dancing in the rain. She'd never been much of a fan when it came to running under downpours and scurrying for shelter. But when it came to him, when it came to _this_, she would worship every single droplet that fell off his skin and onto hers. There had been times when those had been tears. There had been times when it was blood that spattered on them instead of salt water. Together, they seemed to share the best and worst times of their lives. But that night, it had been his love that dribbled onto her, and with every fragment and shard and broken, chipped-off piece of herself, Mikasa accepted each and every drop. Eventually, those had seeped through her skin and flowed into her veins like affluent water. They'd coiled at her nerves, turned to rivers and to waves. Soon, they were both deluged with one another, inundated by their bliss. Where crimson streaks had once stained, their love now thrived and blossomed. He pushed her leg up even more, held himself against her and went a little deeper, so that the same hue of red that had once haunted them now bloomed on her lips and cheeks like a rose, petals that slipped out of her mouth as she panted and heaved, as she flourished and reached her peak._

_What once was cruel was now very beautiful._

_That's just what the world was like when she was with him._

_Once that was over, he slid her leg off his shoulder, slipped out of her carefully, and let his arms collapse from the exhaustion. He summoned just another ounce of strength, just to kiss his way down her centerfold, collect some tiny beads of her sweat and rest his head atop her stomach, where he finally allowed himself to fall. His weight settled on top of her. She didn't complain. She held him. He found refuge in her arms._

_Eren closed his eyes and felt her belly rise and fall beneath him, swaying as she breathed. He never noticed she was crying. He never figured out why, but she was._

_In the silence, Mikasa wept._

_She wept._

_And he was clueless._

_Clueless._

_They regained their strength shortly after, and then her hands were roving up and down his upper back, his shoulder blades, cupping his face and bringing it up so he would look at her._

"_I want you," she said, brushing off the sweaty strands of hair that stuck to his forehead. She didn't let him see that her eyes were red. She'd looked down and taken his right hand in hers to trace the scar across his palm with her finger, and it looked so small, her little finger, small and delicate and cute over the coarse, healed slit of his old wound. Her hands always looked so tiny next to his, despite how strong they were._

_He couldn't help feeling that something was different with her that night. Wrong._

"_You're not tired?"_

"_Not tonight."_

_She spoke without looking at him, tracing the scar over and over, adoring it with her eyes, admiring it with a sweetness and affection she only had for him. She told him again, just low enough under her breath so that he barely heard her._

"_I want you."_

_I want you._

_And then she'd kissed it, that ugly thing that held so many of his nightmares, kissed it and caressed it with her lips. They were smooth and fragile like petals, reverent kisses pressed to his broken skin until another part of her body replaced her mouth and she was guiding his hand across her chest, guiding it until she filled his palm and held it snug and warm against her. If only for a moment, Mikasa had erased the scar right off his skin. She'd slid her fingers in between the spaces of his knuckles and moved his hand in a way that made him close his eyes and feel her, close his eyes and hold his scar against her while she made something so sickening and hideous into something mild and serene. It never ceased to amaze him how the girl could always do that: take all his ugly, broken parts and mend them back together, make them whole. Make him happy._

_Soft moans rose against the silence once he finally gave her what she wanted and took the warm mound that filled his hand and brought it to his mouth. He ran his tongue along the peak, swirled it around the circumference of her nipple and felt her arch, rolled the bud between his teeth and heard her gasping, lapped at it and clamped his teeth around it and soon she was raking her fingers through his hair and moaning, and he was reaching south to press his scar against her in a whole new way, slipping it between her legs and relishing in the consequences, listening to her break and curse and fall apart anew. He felt her wetness on his fingers. Felt her need for him in his hand. She was bright and real and breathtaking. She was his. His._

_His._

_Then, he swallowed one of her pink buds into his mouth and sucked. The sounds she'd made then were heavenly, like music to his ears. He sucked on her nipple and stroked her until she was squirming too much and he was sure he was done torturing her. Then he'd moved on to the other one, done the same, done her the exact same way for a long while until he decided it was best to let her breathe for a second—but just a second, 'cause soon his head found its place between her legs, and those had found their place over his shoulders, and then those soft moans of hers had turned into a lot, lot more._

_There were the sounds she'd made, low and raspy, soft litanies that spurred him on and kept him going. The way she'd clutched his hair, balled some strands into her fist, pulled tight and keened and sighed and keened a little louder. Louder, louder. Curling her toes over his back, crying out his name like it would save her. Quivering thighs over his shoulders, fingernails dragging along his scalp, Mikasa growing tighter, noisier, weaker and oh so fucking beautiful, so fucking perfect, so fucking right. The sweet tang of her fluids released into his mouth as she came. She broke. He tasted her. All of her. Held her down, drank her in, felt her shake and heard her mewl and whimper until she could take no more, until the bliss was too painful, too much, until the only thing left was to yank him by the hair and beg enough, enough, enough._

_Until the only thing left was to turn him on his back._

_Return the favor._

_Have him be the one holding on to her hair, breaking underneath her, drawing some obsidian locks into his fist and watching as she sucked him clean, tugging gently and telling her to stop, to usher him back in—he wanted to feel her, needed her to show him that they were both still there, still breathing, still alive._

_She complied._

_He watched._

_Her hand on his chest, holding on for leverage, she lowered herself until she'd taken him in whole. There was a gasp. A tremble. Her hips swaying to a delicate dance of push and pull, eyes glued deliberately to his, never breaking away, never leaving him. They demanded that he watch her, hold his breath, stare on helplessly as she rose and fell and swayed and did whatever she wanted with him. She had him at her mercy, had him crumbling at the palm of her hand. Her silken hair ended just above her shoulders, all wildly pretty and disheveled as some strands fell over her face, sticking to her lips, parted in her ecstasy. Her head tilted back, but not completely—not yet—she still forced his eyes to watch her, held his gaze with hers. She had him splintering and stuttering. Speechless. She always made him into such a mess._

_And then her hand deserted him, leaving his chest in a quest to find his palm, to bring it to the center of her chest and hold it there, make him feel her heartbeat through his scar. To show him that they're complete, they're perfect, they're infinitely alive._

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump._

_That they both deserved to be, no matter how bad they both wished they had perished along with everyone else they'd lost._

_Ba-dump._

_No matter how much they both wished they weren't._

_Ba-dump._

_They were alive._

_Ba-dump._

_They were _ _chipped_ _ and frayed and _ _fractured._

_B_ _a-dump._

_B__ut_ _still __very much_ _alive._

_Her heart stopped._

_She brought his _ _hand_ _ up to her cheek and held it there, leaning into his touch, closing her eyes _ _and _ _releasing him from _ _her spell__. _ _He ran his thumb over the scratch _ _below her eye,__ watched her take in a breath to say something._

"_I love you," she told him in a whisper._

"_I love you," he told her right back._

_There was not much left to say after that._

_Their language was her dance now, his hands hoisted on her hips, thumbs denting her skin as he gripped tight and bucked up into her and felt himself go far too deep; felt himself go mad and get lost in her, get lost._

_She moved slowly, never wanting their connection to end, trying to stretch out their time together but there just wasn't enough. There wasn't enough for him or her and not enough equity for anything. Soon, the churning hunger in her gut seethed at the unfairness, her muscles screamed and burned. She grew desperate, she moved faster, she pushed frantically for more._

"_Eren..."_

_He bucked up harder. Watched her break._

"_Eren, please."_

"_What?"_

"_Please." She was so far gone, so lost in him completely. Pink and red and sweating, she couldn't even think straight. Her words were sticky and hasty with no spaces in between. "Pleasepleasepleaseplease—"_

"_What, Mikasa?"_

"_I want you to— I want—"_

_He sat up._

_She went dumb at the sudden shift of angle._

_He gripped her arms and pulled her to him, feeling her wrap them safe and secure around his shoulders, snaking themselves around him in her strong viper grip. She hissed in pleasure and pain and desperation, clinging to his skin. He brought his mouth up to her ear—still moving in her—and asked, "What do you want?"_

"_I—"_

_His digits sunk into the dimples on her lower back. She melted against him, mewling into his neck._

"_What, what?"_

_She couldn't speak._

_He slunk his hands down lower and groped her ass, dug his fingers deep into her skin and then lifted her up so that he was half-way out of her. She bit her lip, helpless, resting her hands on his shoulders and looking into his eyes. The moonlight shone in from the windows, illuminating their bodies and their sweat as she waited for his fingers to finish gliding up her sides, searching for some blurry hints of green in front of her but finding none. There was no consolation, no light. She starved for him, for that familiar glint in his green-and-blue orbs._

_But they were absent._

_He didn't look at her._

_Instead, he focused on the way his fingers grazed her edges, traveling up the her curves to the slender slopes of her waist, drawing out her divine hourglass figure in the night. She was so fucking mesmerizing. He couldn't understand it. His hands didn't hold her anymore and he knew that she was tired. Her legs shook beneath her, threatening to give out. But she kept herself suspended over his lap, breath quivering with the effort, waiting for him to grip her waist and hold her and make her his. When he did, he rubbed circles on her skin, supporting her weight, holding still and waiting as she slid her hands down his arms, feeling his muscles, his skin—and something told him that perhaps she was admiring him too. Perhaps she was memorizing his body just as he was memorizing hers. Perhaps she sought after his warmth so that it would stay with her forever. Perhaps she needed him as bad as he needed her. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps._

_Finally, she held on to his biceps, pressing her forehead to his, breathing. Her breath was hot and alive against his face._

_Finally, he looked into her eyes, gasping. The girl never ceased to take his breath away._

_There were no sounds around them. Nothing but their uneven puffs as he pushed her up just a little, just so that he was out of her a bit more. She never took her eyes off him. Neither did he take his off of her._

_A pause._

_The room, suddenly bereft of any breathing._

"_What..."_

_And then he yanked her right back down until she landed on his lap. Her face opened in surprise. She cried out, sinking her nails into his arms."Do you..." And he did it again. Heaved her up and pulled her down with a jerk, their skins meeting with a slap, the sound mixing with their voices as she keened and he grunted and they huffed helplessly together. Her hands flew behind her and held on to his knees, leaning back so that when he lifted her again and brought her back down, his length plunged into her at that angle that made her scream. He had her crazy. Her jaw hung slack and lovely, eyes rolling back and swiveling like they didn't know where to go. She was panting so hard. It made him grow even stronger."Want me..." And she carved her nails into his knees when he did it even harder, throwing her head back and screaming so loud he knew the neighbors could hear. She was shaking. Her face was pained and vulnerable and he loved it. "To—"_

_But then she made him forget everything at once._

_Retaliating, she went and took the lead, rendering him useless by repeating that same move all by herself, mimicking it perfectly, clamping her arms around his neck and reminding him she's so powerful, so much better than he'll ever be._

_She lifted herself up, the seconds hanging in the air until she'd almost slid off him entirely, just his tip still left inside—but then she took him right back in and ground down on his lap real fast, real hard. Hard enough that she had him stretching his neck back and groaning out a **fuck**. Hard enough that she couldn't help it and she'd done it again, just to torture him, just to hear him moaning in her place. Just to lean in and taunt him and say:_

"_I'm sorry, what was that?"_

_His mouth was torn between biting his lip and smiling at her, so he did both. He did both and her cheeks shone bright crimson, her heart turned a little fiercer and a little braver and his voice mixed with the butterflies tickling in her tummy, hot and delicious like chocolate melting on her skin. His teeth grazed her earlobe and he answered:_

"_I said..."_

_The way his breath fanned the curvature of her ear made her skin tingle with goosebumps. A staccato. Pauses that made her lose herself in his voice._

"_What. Do you. Want me—" And he found her breasts and squeezed. She choked back a noise, reflexes bolting to clutch his hands, indicating that he'd hurt her. Her face contorted in her pain, a whole different form of vulnerability he didn't like so much. He apologized by kissing the pointy little tip of her nose, then by planting a tender buss on her lips and waiting for the grimace to melt out of her features. Still, she hid her eyes away from him and screwed them shut. He missed them. Wanted them back. He kissed her little nose again, pecked it until she hummed—her way of telling him she accepted his apology._

_He cupped her breasts a bit gentler, and his hands were right, just right, just large enough to hold the loads of them entirely and feel how much heavier they were—_still_ were. He passed his thumbs over her perked little buds and watched the way her lashes fluttered, reverently admiring and loving every ounce of her, loving how perfectly he filled her and how perfectly she filled him. He realized then that he couldn't live without her. Never. It was a fact he always knew, but having her there with him merely reminded him all over. She was his life. His everything. At this thought, his voice grew softer. At the sight of her, his fierce demeanor fell._

_His girl. Blushing roses and breathing out between her parted lips, she still had her eyes closed. She looked so gentle. So right._

_He felt himself crack open._

_Split right in half._

_His fingers swiped the hair away from her eyes. She couldn't see him, but he smiled at her all the same._

_He loved her._

_Everything was fine._

"_To do..."_

_And then her eyes just bloomed right open, stunning, watching him, watching him watch her, hold her, feel her, cherish her. She gave him a look that was both happy and sad—one that he wouldn't be able to understand yet. And then his voice lowered to a whisper, a softer murmur that was pressed against her mouth and he finished telling her, "To you?"_

_Her response was sweet as sugar, light and fluffy. Set free. She moved her lips to find his throat so she could kiss it, capture some beads of his sweat and taste them. Then she turned a lot more serious. Mikasa tasted the sweat and blood and tears to come and told him with no shame._

"_Kiss me."_

_He leaned back. Looked at her._

_She'd opened her mouth to say more but Eren grabbed her face and kissed her long and hard. Kissed her until her moans were pouring into his mouth and he swallowed every single one of them, drank them down like they could quench him, end his thirst. Their tongues tied and wrestled until they could savor what was left of one another in their mouths, taste the sweetness that lingered on his tongue and know that it was hers, find the vestiges of him on the swollen shapes of her lips and know they came from how she'd sucked him. She'd started moving her hips again, broken back to gasp for air, but he didn't let her catch her breath. He was too impatient. Wanted more of her. Wanted her too bad._

_The way every part of him ached for her that night—it was an ache he'd never felt before. A ravenous hunger. A vital, primal need. It was as if part of him already knew what she would do to him, as if something had been warning him that his demise would surely come. Soon. She would kill him. Eren would perish by her hands._

_Days, months, even years later, he would look back on that night and realize that everything about her had told him. Even the way she breathed had confessed to him what she would do. Every drop of sweat hinted to her efforts, every gasp of his name suggested something more. She'd worn her plan out on her naked body for him to read and decipher. Maybe she'd even hoped that he would know, that he would figure out what she was plotting and try to stop her. But Eren was a fool. He ignored his intuition. He ignored it. The blithe, idiotic fool. How sad, pathetic._

_Humiliating._

_There had been something nagging him in the back of the head, simmering and bubbling and threatening to combust. The truth. It nagged and it bubbled and it nagged. It shouted in the cracks of her skin, in the roseate stain of her lips and cheeks and in the soft, titillating touches of her hands, the fervid clasping of her arms, the desperate way she held him as if he were her life line and she'd never let him go. Everything had warned him. _ _Everything._

_Still, he let it go. Paid no heed._

_Still, he held on to her. Held even tighter._

_He helped her in her rise, grabbed her in her fall, met her in the middle and fucked her like that until her nails were cutting into his back and she had him hissing, until he saw the tendons stretching in her neck and a warm cry spew out of her throat. He brought her close to him, held her so, so, so close to him that he could feel her pants hitting his skin, feel her heart racing as if it were his own and wonder if she could feel his just as evenly. He was safe, he was okay. He held her and he had her and everything was perfect, everything was fine._

_Everything was fine._

_He'd heard of homes having heartbeats once before. Heard poets speak of houses built from flesh and skin and bone—but only after having her, after feeling her life breathe itself right into his, could he really understand what those crazy blokes had meant. Homes were sometimes made of people. He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew. He knew Mikasa was his home._

_Home._

_Home._

_She was his home._

_There was nothing left anymore. Nothing left of him or her and nothing left to do but to exhaust each other. He offered all of him to her, she offered all of her to him, and together they sacrificed every last drop of their strength, so that perhaps one day they might need it in the future, and his arms would strengthen hers, and her legs would carry him forward, and one would live without the other. And life would inevitably go on._

_Time, time, time._

_It was merciless like that._

_Eren surrendered. He gave himself up, laid back down on the bed and watched the sweat trickle down her torso, shimmering like stars rolling down her skin, drops that landed on him as she rode him and watched him and told him to flip her on her back and—_

He's going. To fucking. Faint.

Mikasa chuckles quietly in front of him, still battling to control herself, still lost in her own head.

How much time has passed?

Seconds.

Just seconds.

He's going to faint.

This honestly can't get any worse. It can't it can't it can't.

But it does.

He's going mad.

She's still smiling.

He's so lost.

And she's smiling.

How is this happening?

He still can't breathe.

And she's perfectly fine. Perfectly, perfectly fine.

Suddenly, Eren's on his own. Mikasa fades to nothing right before him. To nothing.

Nothing.

The images come.

They finish him off.

They finish him.

_They switched._

_Him on top, and he was gentle at first. But then she'd asked for more, asked for all of him. Desperately, fervently—begged. Her voice so raw against his ear, legs clenched so tight around him, holding on for dear life as she told him to give more, more, more. Harder, faster. He'd had her gasping his name between her cries. Had her wrapping all her strength around him, clawing at his flesh and sparking fire. She trapped him and pulled him and pushed him in more and told him to finish, with the last drop of her will, told him to "come inside me". Nails dragged across his skin profusely, marking him, scratch marks she'd carved deep into his flesh—tattoos that left him bleeding. Empty. Spent._

_Falling asleep to the drum within her chest. Their song. Loud and playful was their lullaby._

_And then waking up._

_All alone._

_To find nothing._

_No note, no letter. No long, written-out goodbye. The air to have grown drier. Her promise to reverberate, to cling to every sliver of their home. It whispered. It remained._

_It shattered._

_It broke._

_The pieces fell around it to reveal a new, inexorable fact: She's missing._

_The empty space beside him on the bed screamed. The ghostly fragments of her voice blew up in his ears like an explosive, steaming and blazing with the final image of her consuming him in flames—that was his new, sudden reality. That was his new morning life._

_Eren burned in his rage, in his fire, drowned to ashes and to shame. Burning. Burning. Dying out._

_Slowly, slowly._

_Dying._

_Her promise, her always, still spun all around him. It pierced him. It choked him, cutting him, killing him bit by bit. Eren cried. The devastation of his new reality, the embarrassment—it killed him. The sudden emptiness in his bed, in his hands, in his life—he was motionless. Bereft. Tears shone with defeat in his eyes. Surrender. They leaked out of them for years to follow. Endless. Endless, endless streams._

_A hole, blown right through him._

_Flowers, wilting in every garden. The colors never bloomed quite the same way again._

_The light, no longer there. It was switched off forever._

_The entire world looked different without her._

_He couldn't bear it._

_Eren cried._

_There were nail marks all over him, bloody imprints she'd left behind to scorch him. Her scent still soaked his bed—their bed—and every inch of his body. He'd scrub himself raw. He'd punch holes in walls because he could still taste her, still feel her on him and hear her in his dreams and feel like he still had her. He couldn't believe it. He ran. He ran and ran around to find her, but every forlorn streetlamp and naked house and empty corner and call sent straight to voice mail told him the inconsolable truth._

_She's gone._

_It's over._

_It's all over._

_Mikasa vanished._

_Into thin air._

_Vanished._

_Just like his family. Just like his friends. Just like everything else in his poor, pitiful life. Gone without a trace. Without a warning. Without an explanation. Why? Why?_

_Why?_

_Why did she leave him?_

_Eren never called again. He didn't have to. Immediately, he knew. He knew, he knew, he knew. He knew Mikasa had left him._

_She left him._

_She killed him._

_She was gone._

_Gone._

Gone.

"Eren."

He breathes. Finally, he breathes.

He's choking. His throat burns. Every part of him—internally—burns. His intestines, his brain, his heart, his lungs, they're all burning.

Now he feels like throwing up, like puking out the two cups of coffee that just recently made him twitch, that now churn like acid in his stomach. Light-headed and dizzy, he clutches the edge of the island, standing clumsily on his own two feet. Suffocating. He feels like he just walked out of a damn twister, like he's been tossed and stirred and spewed right back out.

Fuck.

His heart hits the pit of his stomach with a thud.

**FUCK**.

"Hey, Eren? Did you hear me?"

Despite the benevolence in her tone, Mikasa's voice is an abrupt burst to the bubble around him, the prick that pops the sphere and pulls him out and shakes him, reminding him it's his turn to talk.

His mouth opens, only to hang agape. Useless. He feels his stomach drop two floors at the sound of her words, then shoot right up to his throat once he forces himself to look up at her.

Mikasa.

_The Girl._

It's taking all his courage not to snap his gaze away from her eyes. Big. Wide. Inky.

Worried.

He can't bring himself to stare at them. The coward, he looks away.

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump._ His heartbeat drums relentlessly.

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump._ Fuck, he's still dizzy.

"Did… Did you hear what I said?"

"What?" There's a buzzing in his ears. He can't really hear her. He can't meet her snowy, splendid face. He can't. He can't, he can't, he can't.

_Coward._

"I said I don't understand why you're having a second cup of coffee," the girl scoffs, eyes all crescent-shaped and smiling, utterly oblivious to what's happening to him. "You know how your body gets."

Her voice is a specter, slithering its way into his ears.

Turning into pants.

To moans.

To breathless cries of _Eren_.

Ghosts.

All of them dead. All of them phantoms.

_Ghosts._

He wants to shut her off and run, to save himself from her firm, throttling hold, from the looming doom of his cracking fortitude. He can't function anymore. He can't do it. He can't. He can't.

He can't.

_Fucking coward._

Eren swallows.

"I don't know either," he breathes out in response, knowing perfectly well that he does. _It's so that you won't feel like an imprudence, __Mikasa__. __That's why I'm torturing myself by having another cup of coffee. __That's why I __sometimes do stupid shit__. So that you don't feel unhappy._

He doesn't tell her that, though.

He doesn't dare.

The girl just shakes her head, still smiling, still perfect, still dazzling and inexplicably right. Still everything he's ever wanted, everything he'll ever need.

Everything he'll never have again.

In that instant, Eren's struck with just how much she's changed. He'd thought with delight of all the things about her that still remained: the way she still licks whipped cream off her mouth, how she still wrings her hands when she's nervous and blushes and frets and giggles just like how he remembers. But now he sees. Now he knows that all the things he thought were still there, in front of him—like nothing'd changed in her, even though so much actually has—they were all just in his head. He'd made it all up. Fathomed it. He clung to those things in hopes of finding fragments of himself still held inside. Selfish. Always so damn, fucking selfish. Blithe, idiotic fool. But there's nothing. No old, ancient Mikasa, no girl with the currants and raspberry scent, no girl except for the one who's changed completely. The one that's engaged now. A woman. A bride-to-be.

She'll never be that girl from his past again.

Never.

Just look at her.

_Never._

The thoughts break his fucking heart to shreds. He can't even live with himself right now. He wants to run. Hide. Just disappear entirely.

It hurts. It hurts to be with her.

It hurts to have Mikasa in his home.

Everything hurts.

In front of him, she sighs again, that long, drawn-out _"haaaahhhhh"_ that makes his mouth water. She tucks a few strands of hair behind her ears, heaving out another long breath, still regaining her composure from her previous little giggle frenzy. Eren can't stop looking at her. Even though she's so different now and so thin and odd and lanky… She's still fucking mesmerizing. She's flawless. Unreachable. Untouched.

Oh, my God.

Eren wants to cry. She still takes all his breath away and there is just no other way to cope with it. He wants to fucking cry.

"Eren..."

Her voice, all of a sudden, is heavy.

With remorse.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that she's looking at him. It takes him another few to process exactly what he's seeing now.

Regret and insecurity are set ablaze in her eyes, bright and daunting, that old panic rekindling as she breathes, "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to laugh."

Wait.

Hold up.

"What?" He can't think of what to say to her. His heart still beats with the adrenaline of his memories, his brain's been pummeled into mush. His limbs shake; that exhausted tremor after exercising too hard and for too long, like he's been running, running, running.

"I've—" She bites her lip, looking to the sides. At that second, Eren bolts right back into action—despite his mental exhaustion—to stop her before she can drown in another thoughtless possibility of 'maybe this was a mistake'.

"No, no. Please. Don't be sorry." He tries to force a smile, to assure her he's alright. He doesn't know if he's accomplished a believable one, but he does manage to achieve a mildness to his tone. His voice is comforting—somewhat. Very faint and careful. "Why would I be mad at you for laughing? Really?"

Mikasa drops her gaze, unwilling to meet him. "I don't know..."

He gives her a look that tells her she's being ridiculous, and she laughs, again, her voice seeping sweetly like honey pouring out of her mouth.

It fucking stings.

Unbeknownst to her, Eren still feels like useless shit. His heart aches at the sight of her, at her presence. At her air.

And now suddenly his eyes…_t__hey look so__ sad._ That same look they'd worn that night when she ran into him—like they've seen too much. There's no flashy, toothy grin to contradict her thoughts. Only his sullen look, that foreign crease resurfacing the skin just between his eyebrows. Like he's frowning. But he's not. At least not that she can see.

She doesn't know his mind spirals at the thought that he'd once lived a better life, a life where she was his, where there weren't questions, only answers. Only him and her and the promise that no matter what, they would always have each other. If one thing was certain in the world, it was that Mikasa would always be with him. Forever. A funny word, that. _Forever_. Six years ago, it had held the entire world.

But now look at them.

Look at what they have become.

She's apologizing over everything, over simply being _her_. He's fretting for her presence, finding frantic ways to keep her by his side. Then being haunted by those memories, by that stupid, useless night. When whispers of his name had filled her throat and the only words uttered in their absence were broken, fucked up promises. Soft litanies that told him he was safe, that he would always be, as long as he was with her. Always. Always.

_Always, Eren. I will always be with you._

But now look at them.

But now look at _him_. She's perfectly fine. He's fucking _shattering__._

Mikasa smiles softly. Eren still wants to puke.

"I guess you're right," she says. He's almost forgotten what they were even talking about. He's reminded when honey seeps out of her mouth in the form of laughter again, though.

Eren sighs, sounding very depleted. The dull sting of her sweet laughter ignites.

He burns.

Nothing makes any sense anymore. Not to him, not to her. She's aloof, clueless to what he's feeling. And he's exhausted, so exhausted now, so confused.

_How have I been able to cope with her presence this far?_

_How have I managed to just _be_ around her?_

_How have I been able to even look at her?_

_How?_

How?

How has every word that's come out of her mouth not betrayed him and turned into _I love you_'s or _I want you_'s or to jagged, crooked spikes of _always?_ How has he been able to look at her in the eyes and not see those glassed, abyssal orbs that had watched him and made him hold his breath? How has he been able to see her without immediately wanting to run for his life or, even more, hate her for moving on with hers?

How is he even coping right now?

How is _she_ even coping right now?

Does she not look at him and see it too? Does she not see his face and recall what he must've looked like sleeping, clueless, utterly ignorant of her actions as she slithered out the door and out of his life? Do her hands still shake from where they'd ripped his heart right out of him? Can she still smell the blood? Feel his muscles beneath her fingertips the way she'd memorized so well? Does her body not yearn for his warmth? Does she not mourn over the empty spaces only he can fill? Does she not smell his scent and automatically remember:

She'd ripped him apart.

Killed him.

How is she so comfortable with that fact? So okay? Just look at her. She's so perfectly, damnably fine with it. With everything. So perfectly, damnably fine.

How?

It's all so cruel. Eren doesn't even know how he's still standing, still breathing, looking at her without immediately perishing on sight. How are they both, after so much tragedy, still even here right now?

_How?_

The hole blown through him bleeds in his agony. His organs all collapse inside of him. Still, the structure of his bones holds him up. Sturdy, Eren looks at her. He talks.

"Besides," he finds the strength to say, "I like it when you laugh like that. You should do it more often."

Mikasa doesn't reply. Instead, she blinks, blushes, lets her eyes linger on the smirk that curves his lips. But then there's nothing. No dimple. No pearly, perfect teeth. No incandescent shimmer in his eyes. He doesn't look so young anymore. Suddenly, Eren looks old. Older. Wasted. Spent.

Like rain that's been wrung out of plump clouds.

Empty.

Mikasa wishes there were still some hot chocolate left. There's nothing for her to hide her face in when she dares herself to ask, "Are you sure you're okay?"

He looks at her. His eyes are tired. A hazy, empty shade of green.

She can't see the stars in them anymore.

She takes in a breath.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost, Eren."

"Huh?"

"I mean, you look… I don't know."

"Oh." There's the scratchy noise of nails on whiskers as he scratches his stubbly cheek. He looks down, still worn out, like the coffee had the complete opposite effect of what it should have. "No. Trust me, Mikasa, I'm alright."

"You sure?"

"Yep."

"Okaaaayyy," she sings, dipping her head to catch his gaze. "Don't lie to me."

Despite himself, Eren smiles. "Trust me, I'm not."

"Okaayyyy," she carols again, and fuck everything to hell for the way she makes him smile again.

He peers down at the coffee that still drips off his hand and scoffs. "I can't believe you thought me twitching was that funny."

"Oh, it was hilarious."

"It really wasn't."

"I beg to differ."

"Nope. You're just weird."

"Oh-ho! _I'm_ weird?"

"You're the complete epitome of—"

Another spasm. It cuts him short.

Mikasa bites her lips into her mouth, trying not to giggle. Frowning. Genuinely concerned.

"Okay." The breath that leaves his lips is short. "I think I'm done with this now." He points to the mug in front of her. "Are you done?"

Mikasa nods gingerly, the traces of her amusement still tightening her lips. "Mhm!"

"Good." He takes the _My Neighbor Totoro_ mug and walks over to the sink, where he drops everything inside and runs his coffee-soaked hand under some water. He eyes the faint, sticky stain of her lip gloss on the rim, right above Totoro's gray ears, which make it look like he's got a pink clumpy halo above his big fat head. The stain is small, painted on by the tippy-top of her mouth and the pert, puckered edge of her lower lip. It's so cute and tiny. He snorts to himself because of it, feeling better—just a tiny bit, but better altogether. It's funny how the same person that tears you apart is the one that puts you back together again.

"So…" Her voice is a timid squeak behind him. "How long have you been with your, um, your girlfriend?"

At that, Eren takes a deep breath. She watches the way his shoulders inflate at the inhale, how they rise before they heave and fall again.

"Four years."

_Holy shit!_ "Oh, wow."

"Yeah. On-and-off"

He doesn't see that she's wringing her hands together. Nervous. "And I'm guessing that it's... 'off' now..."

Eren turns around, reaching for the can of whipped cream in front of her and making eye contact. Her hands cease their nervous dance when he answers, "Correct."

"Oh." And his eyes leave hers as he turns around to open the refrigerator. Mikasa watches him stick the can between a half-empty jar of mayonnaise and a glass bottle of ketchup. He lingers, perusing the contents of his own fridge, looking for something to eat, it seems.

Selflessly, she breathes, "...Hence the Hitch."

Eren nods, agreeing, even smiling a little. "Hence the Hitch."

Well, at least that clears up the whole cheating assumption.

_But still..._

"What's she like?"

He straightens, turns around, looks at her.

"My girlfriend?"

Suddenly, it's become much harder to talk. _You shouldn't be asking these questions, Mikasa. You know you shouldn't __be __med__—_

"Yea-up."

"Um, well..." Eren stares out the window for a moment, squinting his eyes as if the whiteness of the world outside were blinding him. "Blonde. Blue eyes. Short. Very pretty."

"Of course." She doesn't even catch herself saying this. When she does though, she looks up at him, curious to see his face. But he doesn't react at all. He just turns right back around to stare at the contents of his fridge, almost apathetically, snaking a hand beneath his shirt to rub his stomach whilst he decides on what to eat.

Another ancient Eren body language, that.

Mikasa ties not to and yet—

She stares.

A sliver of his skin is bared for her to see as his shirt pulls up to expose the side of his hipbone, caramel muscles on his lower abdomen taut and ridged, stretched over his stomach as he runs his hand up and down the—

This is the part where Mikasa rips her gaze away. Quite desperately.

Don't you even _think_ of wondering what that might feel like under your fingertips, lady. _Don't you even __**dare** __._

"What to eat, what to eat," Eren mumbles under his breath, and after he plucks out a can of some sort of sour cream dip, he swiftly turns around to face her, to ask, "And yours?"

Mikasa's eyebrows knit together. "My what?"

There's that little smirk again, forming in his mouth. Barely there. Barely noticeable. "Your fiancé." He sets the dip on the island before ripping off some paper towel rectangles to drop them over the mess of coffee on the floor, letting it soak up the liquid as he digs through the kitchen cabinets and produces a large family-sized bag of chips. Mikasa fixes her gaze on him, waiting for him to return to his spot right in front of her so she can speak.

"Well," she says, staring at his hands as they rip the bag open, "you want me to describe him to you?"

"If you want."

"Um..." She takes a deep breath, eyes following his movements as he plucks out a chip as shoves it into his mouth. There's the loud crunch of his teeth breaking into the thing. He's watching her. Watching her watch him.

That's her cue to keep on talking.

She doesn't even realize that her eyes are blatantly stuck to his, so that when the image of her fiancé pops into her head, it stands right next to Eren's.

"Well, he's tall. Very, very tall. Makes me feel tiny."—_kinda like how you do_—"And uh… let's see. He's my age"—_and yours_—"'s got slightly tannish skin"—_but yours is tanner_—"and these intense, sharp eyes"—_that __sometimes __remind me of you_—"that are light-brown... sometimes gold, if the light hits them the right way. And, um, he's got ash-brown hair, he's handsome—"

"Of course."

She purses her lips, rolling her eyes at his comment. Eren smiles, shoving another chip into his mouth before twisting the lid off the sour cream dip.

Mikasa scoffs, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Seriously?"

"What?"

"You're eating chips?"

Eren swallows, furrowing his brows. "What's wrong with that?"

"Chips and coffee for breakfast," is her deadpan. She's judging him.

"Oh. Ha. Ye-up." He lifts up the bag, turning the gaping intrusion he made into it her way so that she's hit with a whiff of the salt-soaked, deep-fried, high-cholesterol hazard held within. "You want some?"

She wrinkles her little nose. "No, thanks."

Another shrug. Another chip shoved into his mouth. "Alrigh, shuit yourshelff." Idiot still talks with his mouth full, apparently.

She shakes her head. "It's good to know you're still eating healthy, Eren."

But he mustn't heard her. He gives her a look that indicates he's still waiting for her to talk.

Oh. Right. Her fiancé.

"And, ah… well, he's smart. Like, really, really smart. He's to inherit his father's company very soon, actually."

Eren nods, shoveling a chip into the dip, breaking it in the process. "Impressive."

"Yeah."

"That would explain why he's working on a Sunday, then." He's trying to retrieve the broken pieces with another one. It isn't working.

Mikasa sighs, watching him struggle in the endeavor. "Right."

"And how is he with you?"

She's quiet for a moment, knowing that the question should make her feel uncomfortable—and normally, it would. But Eren's voice is so calm, so clear. She can't help it when she selflessly replies: "He's very kind and patient, always gentle with me. We've never fought. Never. Not even once."

Eren nods again, successfully retrieving the broken pieces of his chip. "Well, that's good."

"I guess."

A small twitch courses through his body, milder than the first few, but still powerful enough to make him shiver.

Mikasa snorts, shaking her head, and then they both breathe out a laugh simultaneously, giggling at his body's incapacity to contain copious amounts of caffeine. There's that puny dimple forming at the corner of his mouth as he works another chip into the dip. He's smiling. Genuinely, now.

The light slowly seeps back into his eyes.

Mikasa admires it.

"How'd you meet?"

Oh, look at that. Another question that should make her uncomfortable—and yet, it doesn't. The low timbre of his voice makes her feel at ease with herself, the fact that he's behaving more normally makes her happy. His easiness makes her say, "Well, it's kind of a long story."

Eren's answer to that is simple. "I got time."

This makes her smile faintly. She digs a hand into the bag of chips, fishing out two little crisps whilst Eren smirks at her, feeling pleased with the fact that she's eating his food.

"It was about two years ago, back when he was in college. I was sitting alone on a bench eating chips"—she holds up the two crisps in her hand, which Eren acknowledges with a nod—"and reading when he sat next to me and did something that caught my attention."

"Which was...?"

"He started quoting passages straight out of my book. Like, from his memory. Somehow, he managed to see what page I was on and he just summoned from his brain the very words I was reading right in front of me. It was unreal."

Eren takes in a very deep breath, his chest bloating like he's about to say something immense.

"Wow."

That's it. That's all that comes out of him.

Mikasa nods her head, staring at the chips in her hand. "Mhm. Then he said he'd never seen anyone like me before, and that he couldn't understand how I managed to make something as simple as reading a book seem so breathtaking"—she smiles, mostly to herself—"and that if he let me walk away without at least knowing my name, that he wouldn't be able to live with himself for the rest of his life."

Eren cocks a brow, chewing, droning, "Wow. He sounds like quite the charmer."

"Oh, he can be. When he wants to be, anyway."

"And what book were you reading?"

"Um—"

"Let me guess… _Illusions_?"

She shovels the chips into the dip, pouting. "Yes."

Eren chortles loudly, thoroughly pleased with himself. "Ha! I knew it."

"I mean, it's _only_ the one book I've read about fifty times."

"Yeah," he clucks. "_Only _fifty times."

"Be quiet."

"Do you still have it?"

"The book?"

Eren rolls his eyes. "Nah, Mikasa, the bag of chips you were eating."

"No, I don't," she answers calmly, bringing the chips to her mouth. She makes sure to swallow her food before she speaks again. "And I don't have the book either."

Eren smiles at her deadpan humor, his grin stretching even wider once he sees her absent-mindedly sucking the salt off of her fingertips. _Oh__hh__, Mikasa._

"And why not?" he asks her, leaning in a bit closer.

She holds her breath. Tries not to smell him.

"I left it behind when I moved," she says, nodding at his dramatic gasp of "what?!"

"Yeah." And she's still holding her breath. "I know."

"But—" She half expects him to hold a hand to his chest when he accuses, "Why would you do such a thing?"

She sighs briefly, lamenting herself, sucking in a breath, swallowing a gulp of earthy, citrus-y _him_. She reaches over for another chip as she says, "I'm still asking myself that same question."

There's a jolt. Then another. Mild shocks that wash through him like waves.

"Oh my God, Eren," the girl laughs. "When will it stop?"

He shrugs helplessly, throwing his hands up and making an 'I dunno' sound in his throat.

It makes her laugh again.

(God, he fucking loves that sound.)

"Are you still dancing?" Eren asks her, looking into her eyes, his golden stars flickering as he sneaks a hand into the bag right after her, paper rustling 'round his sifting fingers.

Her gaze falls, snapping free of his, staring at the island between them. She thinks she sees the little stars twinkling over the counter top, as if they stuck to her own vision and she stole them away from him. Quietly, she replies, "Nope. I don't want to, anymore."

Eren pulls out a handful of chips, tilting his head back to throw them into his mouth. He's quiet for a moment, chewing, staring into space. Then, suddenly:

"Wai, fwap?!"

Crumbs go flying off his mouth and land over the island. Mikasa makes a face, the chip she was about to shove into her mouth stopping mid-air.

If "!" was a facial expression, Eren would be wearing it right now.

"Please, Eren," she begs. "Swallow first."

He mumbles imperceptibly, cradling a hand beneath his chin. Half of her suspects he'll spit his food right out on his hand to yell at her, but he doesn't. He chews for a few more seconds, closing his eyes, frowning, nostrils flaring in his frustration and Mikasa prays he doesn't accidentally choke.

After swallowing, he takes in a breath, cleans his mouth, slaps his hands on the island, looks at her—and there's that ghastly expression on his face again, like she's punched him in the face or something.

He questions, "Why not?"

She answers, "It's complicated."

And Eren spits a curse under his breath. "Bullshit."

Mikasa's eyes grow wide, taken aback. Startled, she peers at him. "I'm… I'm serious."

"But I don't understand," he hisses, shaking his head, running both hands down his face and groaning out of frustration. "I mean, Mikasa, dancing is your _life_."

At those words, the "bubble" of safe distance between them shakes, trembles that ripple through the thin coating of the sphere and threaten to pop it.

"Not anymore." She feels part of herself chip off at the declaration.

Eren seems to lose a little piece of himself too.

"But..." He's astonished. Betrayed. Flabbergasted, he exclaims, "But that's preposterous!"

"Eren..."

"I'm sorry, I just— I just don't believe that one bit."

Her face is expressionless, a sign that she's closing off, drawing back from the conversation. She closes her eyes, inhaling, feeling the bubble shake even more. "I told you. It's complicated."

"Still asking yourself that same question?" and his voice is milder now, almost challenging, but not quite so.

Hers, however, burgeons with distress.

Weeds that flourish, that latch onto her flesh.

Scratching.

Itching.

Burning.

The daunting wilt of an elegant rose.

She opens her eyes to look at him, and his are already fixed on her, staring right back all bright and fiery and so hot they melt the snowy expanse of her face. Funny how they seem to be that way now, since they were so muted just moments ago, so dead.

"No." Her voice is toneless. "I know why I'm not dancing."

"Tell me."

Her eyes close again, a weary breath passing through her. "Eren."

"Please? Come on, I'm worried here."

"Worried?" Onyx orbs slide open. They hold his face. "What? Why?"

"Because—" Eren stammers, realizing what he's just said. Embarrassed, he huffs, shaking his head, looking away from her. "Argh, never mind."

But Mikasa clings to his words. She parts her lips, the spot where the bead of hot chocolate had once been now gleaming with a whole new kind of torture: her saliva. It glistens at the swift passing of her tongue. Her lip gloss's turned dry and icky, making her lips feel even more chapped than what they'd felt outside in the cold. She bites down on the lower petal of her rosy mouth, thinking, summoning the courage to ask, "What do you mean you're worried?"

"Forget it."

And he still won't look at her. The melted snow on her face freezes over in the absence of his heat, and she feels a tinge of panic begin to swirl, mixing with the hot chocolate and chips within her belly in a way that makes her sick, the trembling of the bubble growing to tumultuous quakes.

"Eren."

"I said forget it, okay?"

"But—"

"Mikasa." He looks into her eyes, twinkling stars and everything. "Just let it go."

Pop.

There goes the bubble.

"Fine."

And then, there's silence.

And then, there's guilt.

It looms over them both. She feels she's disappointed him, he feels that he's disappointed her. He reacted out of bounds, alarmed her, made her coil away. She uttered the wrong things (but what else is new?), angered him, made him fret. Eren's sure she'll leave now, that he's surely pushed her out. He can almost hear his own words being hissed back at him, mocking, shaming him. Bullshit. Forget it.

_I said forget it, okay?_

_Mikasa._

_Let it go._

…

Goddammit.

The more he thinks about it, the more he's absolutely certain she'll definitely call quits now. And like, he didn't mean to! He didn't mean to react so impulsively but—just what the fuck?! Why isn't she still doing what she loves? Her only passion? And saying that she doesn't want to anymore? That's just so unfathomable! She's only twenty-five! It's too early for her to reti—

It's none of his business.

She's none of your business, Eren.

He knows that.

…

…

Ugh, FUCK.

He's such an idiot, always shooting his words out of his ass. He wishes he knew how to control himself, measure the large quantities of his emotions and spurt them out in fractions, not all at once. He can already hear it: the screech of wood on wood, the click of her heels upon his floor, the loud pang of the front door slamming shut, a boom that reso—

"It's just life."

One of them speaks.

Eren raises his head.

He realizes it's Mikasa.

"Life." A sigh, her shrunken chest deflating, a chip thrown into her mouth, the muted crunch of her chewing until she swallows. "That's why I'm not dancing, Eren. Marriage, moving to a whole new place… it's all too much right now."

He shakes his head, looking pained. "But dancing's your life, Mikasa. You love it. You always have. You love it_ so _much."

And this is where they're both completely different: when pressed with heat, Eren sizzles and cooks and boils.

Mikasa, however, turns to ice.

"Yeah, well, I don't know what to tell you," she says, emotionless, cold. "I'm not dancing right now, and that's that."

"Alright," and he tries to give his best impersonation of apathy, certain that he's failed.

Mikasa grows quiet, very quiet, and Eren knows her mind swims with cumbersome thoughts. She stares out the window, and he doesn't see the snow flakes reflected in her irises this time, doesn't see them landing over the inky waters of her pools, forming ripples before fading.

Her eyes look sad and hollow, and even though the rest of her expression is carved from frigid stone, she's always had the disadvantage of possessing mirrors on her face, two windows that allow a peek to what's happening inside. She blinks once, twice, and Eren realizes he's counting. He realizes he's peeking, searching for glimpses of the old Mikasa—_his Mikasa_—still painted on her face. And he knows he shouldn't do it. And he knows he's such a fool. And for that, just that, he does it anyway.

There's salt dusted on her fingertips, some even on her nails, and she doesn't bring them to her mouth this time, doesn't bother to clean it off. Because her mind now travels elsewhere. Away from her. Away from him. Away from everything. She thinks, she goes, she wanders.

She wilts.

She withers.

The resplendent rose.

She wanes.

Eren wonders even more what she must feel like, how the salt on her hands might taste, how lightly her weight could settle in his arms if only he reached out and held her. And the awnings that hang over her eyes flutter wistfully as she blinks, like little butterflies preparing to take flight and leave her. And he's never felt so far away from her before—he has her _right here_, and yet she feels so far away from him. She desserts him, and his insides swelter at the notion that this human being was once his, a permanent extension of his own soul. And he can't understand how it is that he once had his whole world splayed open right in front of him, blooming at the palms of his hands, shaking and gasping and breathing life and essence, every word that spilled out of her mouth forming the globe beneath the countries, a map of their own creation, an endless stretch of unmarred waters and lands, so vast and pure and untouched by anything. He was so certain, so sure. Everything about the world reminded him that he was set for life because he had her—the birds, the trees, the fluffy clouds in the sky. They all made sense. Everything made sense because of her. But yet life would play him a cruel trick, a black hole would suck in everything, eradicate all traces of his home, his love, his life. He'd be forced to live without her, to learn how to breathe anew. Because the oxygen never flowed into his lungs the same way again. He was always choking on his words since talking seemed pointless if uttering her name was no longer allowed; speaking became absurd if it wasn't to talk about her, to mention her in passing, to say "yeah, my girl, she likes that too". He'd have to re-learn everything without her because everything had changed. Even walking became different. What once were brisk, peppy steps now dragged along, one foot after the other, the effort of formality no longer present in his gait.

But now, here she is.

Quiet, thinking, peeved at him—already. And he loves that she makes him nervous, and he loves that he makes her mad. He loves that when he's with her, he can feel things, he can feel, he can _be_—somehow, just somehow, he can. He doesn't really understand it, it's not something a man like him would ever be able to explain, but she's killed him so many times before and yet she's the only person in the planet who makes him feel like he's truly living.

And he knows, with every part of him, he knows:

_I'm going to have to let her go again._

'Cause now the petals are falling off her, one by one, the remainder closing off into a bud and recoiling away from him, shriveling into herself. And she's the resplendent rose that sometimes withers, and he's just a weed that will never be anything more. And Eren feels so useless, so incompetent, because there's nothing he can do.

He's gonna have to let her go again.

_"Fiancé?"_

_"Yeah, I'm getting married in a few weeks."_

_"That's wonderful!"_

A lie.

_"Thank you."_

And then the sky had crashed upon him.

"_I'm very happy."_

Very happy.

Very happy without him.

This fiancé of hers, this… _man_. Does he have the same girl Eren once had? Does she whisper his name into his shoulders and let him kiss her eyes to sleep? Does she make promises to him, like she'd done to Eren? Does she love him just as ardently, with just as much, with equal amounts of herself poured into every move, every phrase, every clasp of her arms and arch of her back and sputtered words left steaming on her tongue?

She's so deep into her thoughts, she's not even blinking anymore.

As Eren reaches over to pluck another chip out of the bag, he tries very hard not to touch her. He doesn't dare. He scoops up some of the dip. She's still entranced.

He doesn't dare.

And yet he feels her anyway.

Grinding up against his hand, planting kisses down his body, wrapping herself around him with her smiles, with her legs, with everything she has. And Eren knows he's fucked, big time, because he's just violated every rule on his list of Acceptable Things To Do Around Mikasa. He's already felt her all over him, and she hasn't moved an inch. He's already heard her breathe his name into his ear, and she hasn't even spoken. He's already jumped three steps before her fiancé, and he's never even met the man.

He finds some strange kind of solace in knowing that he's taken things from her that her new husband will never have. Like her first kiss, her first date, her first slow dance, her first ballet, her first skinny dip, her first favorite book, her first _I love you_, her first fuck, her first_ will you_ _marry me?_, her first _I do_, her first _always_, her first_—_

"_**AAAND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII—!"**_

"Ah!"

"Jesus!"

Yelps, jumping hands scurrying for the vibrations in her purse, Eren's sour-cream-dipped chip flying off his hand and landing down his stomach.

"—_**WILL ALWAYS L**__**OOO**__**VE YOOOOOOUUU!**__**!"**_

"I-I'm sorry!"

"What the fuck?"

"_**OOH OOH OOH OHHHH**__**HHH**__**HHHHH!"**_

"Sorry, sorry." Eren's clutching his chest, trying to keep his soul from leaving his body as Mikasa pants, rummaging through her purse, frenzied. "It's just"—her face turns pale once she holds the belting iPhone to her face—"my cell."

They both look at one another.

"Him?"

She nods.

He does, too.

Whitney Houston still screams the anthem of Satan through her ringtone, the phone reverberating furiously in Mikasa's hand.

_Or is she shaking?_

She looks terrified.

They both glance down at the streak of sour cream on his shirt.

Eren looks back up at her.

She _is _terrified.

"I'll be back," he breathes.

She nods again, holding the phone against her chest, mouthing out a _sorry_.

He mouths back,_ it's okay._

And then he goes.

She speaks.

Whitney Houston stops singing.

"Hello?"

"_Heeeeeeeeeeey, Baby!"_

"Jean."

Those are the last three things Eren hears before going into his bedroom.

The hinges creak and he contemplates closing the door entirely, but Mikasa's chirpy voice slips in through the thin space between the jamb and the door, so he settles for looking at her, for peeking through the crack.

"Really?" Her back's to him, and her shoulders seem so tense, Eren feels his own muscles cramping. "Oh. Well, that's nice."

Silence.

"I'm okay. Yeah."

Silence, again.

"Nothing, really." She doesn't move at all. Eren wonders if she's even breathing. "Just cleaned, fed Jiji, ate some toast. Yup. That's it." She's talking about her day, of course.

Eren isn't mentioned.

He wonders, though, if perhaps a trace of him leaks out her words, sodding them in his presence.

_I'm in someone else's home. Without you. Laughing. Talking. Getting_ _mad__._

That's what Eren hears. It's what he hears instead of:

"I miss you too."

He closes his eyes.

Tries not to feel it.

The sting. Ignore it. Ignore the pain.

"You are?" Suddenly, she sounds amused. He hears the happiness in her words, the way her murmurs take flight into gentle exclamations. "Really? Oh. Oh?"

And then she laughs. A brief, flaccid chuckle, a different kind of laughter than the one she graces around Eren.

"Well maybe you should stop buying Pringles, ever thought of that?"

She laughs again.

That _foreign_ laugh.

Eren steps away from the door, turning his back to it, gazing into his own room, which now suddenly feels as strange to him as if it were someone else's. He still smells Hitch all over the place. He still smells Mikasa.

"No, he didn't." Her tone is soft. Like she's made entirely of clouds. Eren sighs, wet under the drizzle of her breathy voice, drenched in the downpour of her laughter.

"I mean, at least not while I was there. I just fed him, is all."

Suddenly, the man's voice bursts into the apartment.

"_**Well, I'm just saying—"**_

Mikasa frets, hissing. "Shoot!"

Eren turns to peek through the door, watching as her fingers clamber along the phone's touch-screen. He hears the man's deep, musical drone, tilting with amusement as he talks to his future wife.

"—_**if he gets his head stuck in one of those Pringles tubes again I'm just gonna have to—"**_

It's gone.

Mikasa runs a hand down her face, sitting up straighter, pressing the phone to her ear and blowing out through her nose.

Eren watches her.

_Ba-dump-ba-dump-ba-dump-ba-dump._

Why is his heart beating so fast?

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just… I pressed the speaker button with my cheek."

She laughs a breath.

Eren does, too.

"Well, I'm still new to these types of phones."

"Flip-phones," Eren whispers. That's what she always used to own. Flip-phones.

And then she's silent for a long while, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, listening to her fiancé talk.

Eren imagines his voice, recalling it from memory. Strong and gruff, but yet laced with all the kindness in the world.

Maybe he really_ is _as gentle with Mikasa as she says he is.

"Mhm. Yeah."

Eren listens to her, absorbing her voice, her words, every intake of air before her sentences. Her tone is milder, more mellow, every word a mere hair above a breath—and it contrasts the type of tone she takes around Eren entirely.

He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes again, pressed his back to the wall, drowned in every "yes" and "no" she utters. Her answers are all short. They're all simple, spoken with the comfort of knowing someone for a long time.

"Yeah, okay. See you there."

Eren's gaze focuses on nothing in particular, his own bed a blurry hint behind the hazy gloom of everything.

"By— What? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

A pause.

"Oh. Yeah. Ye— Oh, my God."

Another one.

"Okay. I love you too."

"_Mikasa." _The man's voice rips slits into his ears. Eren hears him, and the phone's not even set on the speaker setting anymore. He holds on to the way he says her name: how the 'm' lulls on for a second, the absence of the 'i', the sharp slap of the 'k', the drawn out 'a' that's snipped in half by a hiss...

"Hmm?"

_Okay. I love you too._

"What."

_I love you too._

"I know."

It echoes, it echoes.

"Okay. Bye."

_I love you too. I love you too. **I love you—**_

"Eren?"

He gasps.

_Shit!_

"Yeah!" He pulls his T-shirt over his head, careful not to get any of the dip on himself as he dashes through his bedroom. "I just— Hold on."

A feeble whisper. "'Kay."

The screech of wood on wood.

The click of her heels upon his floor.

Mikasa's leaving.

Eren slides his closet door open, plucking out the first hooded sweater to catch his eye, hurling his dirty T-shirt to the side and seeing it land right beside the trash can where he disposed of Hitch's neon undies (she'll gut him, but it's what she gets for trying to torture him). He works himself into the hoodie, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he scrambles to the door, whence he finally takes a deep breath, skims a hand through his messy hair, opens it, and goes out.

"Hey," is the first thing Mikasa says when she sees him.

And now, she stands.

A spacious gap between her thighs.

A tendril of hair fallen over her face.

Her bun slightly loosened.

Eren's toilsome eyes straining to hold still.

"Hey," is the first thing he thinks to say back. His heart still beats fast, and he doesn't really know why. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I..." She's quiet for a second, running her hands down her jeans, Eren feeling like his eyes are about to pop out of his face and roll onto the floor. "He's uh… He's on his way home."

"Oh?"

"I know." She shrugs, her shoulders going up so high they nearly press against her diamond-studded ears. "He just… I don't know. He managed to get out early."

"That's great!" There's a crack in his voice.

"Yeah." She takes in a long breath, her lungs inflating widely, and Eren spots the curved shape of her bra's underwire beneath her top. "Anyways, I should go now."

The space between them shrinks, but somehow, it feels like it's only gotten bigger.

"Make the best of it," Eren tells her, walking towards her as she makes her way to the door.

Mikasa shakes her head incredulously, wrapping his crimson scarf around her neck before lifting her coat off the hanger. "I'm telling you, it's a miracle. He never—" She stops herself, looks up at him, sighs. "Well, you wouldn't care to know."

"Really," he smirks, slipping his hands into his pockets. "You underestimate me."

And the smile on her face is so damn worth it, the scent on her coat is so damn strange, the way she pushes her arms through the sleeves and shrugs her shoulders is so damn fascinating. She doesn't even bother to put on her gloves, instead just hooks her purse over her elbow, turning to him, and Eren wishes his front door would miraculously melt shut, or freeze over, or that the latch would break and lock them both inside forever so that she never leaves him again.

"Thank you, Eren," she whispers, scratching the corner of her mouth. He wonders if the salt still sticks to her fingertips. "For the hot chocolate. For the chips."

He rings his hand around the doorknob, praying that it doesn't work. "It's no problem."

"I'm sorry I laughed at you."

"Stop."

"And made you smear sour cream dip all over your shirt."

"You see now _that," _he makes a face, crinkling his nose, "not sure if I'll ever forgive you."

A smile. "Oh, no."

A solemn nod. "It's my favorite shirt."

And then there's a long beat, and echoing twang of silence. He doesn't move his hand—not yet—reluctance glues his fingers to the metal of the doorknob.

Mikasa seems to want to tell him something. Eren ponders what else to say.

But neither of them say anything.

"Okay, time to go," she breathes out eventually, perking up like a little girl about to go get ice cream.

Eren tests the knob. It opens.

God is cruel.

"Time to go," he echoes, knowing he should've put a lot more effort into sounding less disappointed.

Promptly, the girl slinks her way out of his apartment, her scent burning in his nostrils and he still can't recognize it at all. Once outside, she turns around to face him, and Eren thinks he feels his heart droop a little, sagging like a sad tree, withering like drying leaves in autumn.

He stands still, looking down at her, thinking of ways to make her stay.

She stands straight, looking up at him, thinking of how to say goodbye.

"Ah, wait!" Eren blurts out suddenly, turning to find some shoes. "Hold on, I'll walk you to the door."

"No, no," she's quick to object. "Really. I have to run."

"Yeah, but—"

"Eren. Please. Just..." She screws her eyes shut, bouncing slightly. "No."

"…Okay." His arms drop to his sides, defeated.

Mikasa gives him a look that says she's thankful for his effort—and there's that presence again, that air. That whisper that says, _go on,_ _say something to him. Tell him you'll come back, that you'll see him, to wait for you, to wait._

But she ignores it.

Jean is on his way home right now. Jean. On his way _home._ **Jean.**

It's time to go.

"Okay, have a good—WAIT!"

She half-turns to walk away but whips right back around to extend her hand—palm up—and hold it out to Eren.

He looks down at it. What, does she want him to grab it?

"My pen."

Oh. Right. Of course.

"Shit, hold on," and he races to his bedroom. Mikasa cranes her neck, taking a peek inside, watching him slip in through the door, the discombobulated bed sheets carrying a whole new meaning now that she knows so much about his love life. She tries not to think of the fact that Hitch's apartment door is right behind her, capable of swinging open at any time and exposing her to the sight of hickeys, rumpled blouses, sex-tousled hair, scorching eyes from hell that melt right through her. You know. All that jazz.

She hears the opening and closing of drawers, the roving of his hands through paper, the exasperated _fuck_ he spits under his breath as he searches through his stuff. She smirks, thinking of how nice he looks in that hoodie he's wearing now. Green. Like his eyes. The color certainly suits him. It's a good thing he's been wearing it all day because—

Wait, what? No. No, Mikasa did not just think that. Ha. Whoa.

_Pervert._

Me?

_Pervert._

I don't get what you're saying.

_I'm saying, did you see how nice his sweatpants kinda just hang around his hips and make his ass look really—_

**IN THE NAME OF GOD I REPENT YOU!**

…

_Damn, okay! Shit. You didn't have to yell at me._

Mikasa coughs.

Finally, Eren shows up. He's got her pen in his right hand, a small book in the other, and a shit-eating grin on his face. "Here you go," he says, slightly out of breath, offering her all three things.

Mikasa peers down at his hands, retrieving the items, gawking at the small book—and suddenly, something flutters to life inside of her, an old, burnt-out ember bursts to flames. She's hit with the familiarity of it: a single blue feather poised amid a the center of the cover, a faint trail of glinting stars gathered around it. She knows this book. Her eyes dart around the images, absorbing every tiny, glimmering dot—shooting up to meet the ones that glimmer within Eren. His eyes shine with an odd sort of happiness once she meets his gaze, like he's happy, but not for himself; more like, happy for_ her_. She's breathless when she speaks, knowing that she's read the bolded lettering correctly but still asking, "What's this?"

"It's _I__llusions,_" Eren smiles, running his fingers through his hair, pulling the strands away from his face. "Take it."

Mikasa's eyes go enormously huge. She gasps, her cheeks boiling bright red in her astonishment. "Eren." She shakes her head feverishly, holding the book out to give it back to him. "No, no, Eren, I can't."

"Don't be stupid. Just take it."

"But it's _yours._"

He moves a hand around in the air, swatting off her objections before they reach his ears. "I've got like five other copies. Please. Just take it."

"But you can't just give me your—"

"It's a book. Not my liver." He pushes her hands closer to herself, feeling the way she goes stiff under his touch. The contact only lasts a second, because then her eyes are on him, startled and amazing; abyssal, onyx orbs that can make any man go blind. His hands tingle where they'd touched her. Light-headed, he grins. "Merry Christmas."

She stands dumbfounded with her mouth wide open, staring at him, the raven lock of hair that's fallen over her face sticking to her lips as she blinks through her daze. "Uh..." She glances down at her hands, holding the book and pen firmly in her grasp. "Thank you," she whispers, looking back up at him, her eyes bubbling over with gratitude as she smooth the lock of hair behind her ear and turns such a pretty shade of pink that Eren thinks he's going to be on the verge of crying again. "I'll bring it back when I'm done."

"Sounds good to me." Perfect, actually. Sounds fucking perfect.

They stand in silence for a moment: Mikasa holding the book to her chest as if she were trying to melt it into her flesh and make it part of her, Eren staring at the scarf around her neck and at the rosiness of her face and bare knuckles and wondering what other more secretive parts of her might still be that—

Whoa-kay. Stop it right there, Eren Jaeger. _Stop it._

"I had fun," she squeaks, pulling her purse up to her shoulder, and everything about her screams such a crude resemblance to his past that Eren has to swallow down the sudden lump that's lodged itself in his throat.

He chokes a little. "Me, too."

And he sees her, about to leave, sucking in a breath before talking again.

And time stops.

He hears her.

_Always, Eren._

_I will always be with you._

And then everything resumes again.

Time, time, time.

Always so merciless.

The bud sprouts to a bloom before he can even stop it. "Okay, I _really _have to go now. Merry Christmas!" She flourishes, dashing through the corridor, the sound of her heeled footsteps beating in his ears."See you, soon!"

"Yep!"

And he's waving out a hand. She's giving him a smile over her shoulder.

And everything hurts. Everything hurts.

Everything hurts him.

She's already half-way down the stairway when he suddenly calls out her name.

"Oh, Mikasa?"

The footsteps comes to a halt, a quick six taps as she gallops up the stairs to be high enough to see him. She holds a hand to the railing, turning around to face him.

"Yeah?"

"Try not to break our front door this time, okay?"

The roll of her eyes is so severe, Eren fears she might've induced a headache. "Bye, Eren."

"Bye."

And then she's gone.

Just like that.

Gone.

He stands frozen for a moment, smacked across the face by the entirety of what's just occurred. The beating in his chest is so violent, he thinks his heart might just jump right off his chest and try to chase after her. His blood courses through him with such force, Eren fears he'll run out of it and plop back onto the ground and just, like, _die._

So… Yeah. That just happened.

Mikasa was just here.

Mikasa.

_Here._

The door slams shut.

A loud boom that resonates through his apartment as he flies over to the window in his room, peeling back a sliver of the curtain so that he can see outside.

Immediately, he sees her: body bobbing up and down as she walks, snowflakes falling gently all around her—and even from this angle, Eren can catch that distinct glide in her gait, the way her shoulders square, how her long legs stretch out underneath her, the way her hair's pulled up into that bun with the frilly fly-aways. And when she digs her fingers to meddle with the hairtie, a waterfall of obsidian tresses spills free. She's walked far enough now that Eren can hardly see her, and yet he catches the way her hair reaches all the way down to the center of her back, and then he's suddenly forgotten how to breathe entirely.

How many girls hasn't he confused for her before? Thinking that it was her walking right outside of his apartment, making her way to and fro. And now it _is_. And now it _is_ her! It is, it is, it is!

She takes a turn down the street and vanishes from view entirely, his heart gasping at her abrupt absence.

That's it.

She's really gone now.

With a sigh, Eren traipses over to the living room, looking around, realizing how empty his own home feels without her. The whole damn place feels vacant now—even the air feels _w__rong_. Like she's meant to be inside it all along. The places she'd touched, every surface and space she'd merely brushed against... they're all stained. Changed. Tainted. Different because she was there. She was _there_. In his presence, in his home, in his eyes.

There.

Her perfume lingers around him. Her voice echoes in his ears. Sweetly, endearingly, she echoes. She breathes. She laughs. She speaks. She talks to him.

"_F-fuck, Eren."_

"_What?"_

"_Stop teasing me."_

Mikasa.

How has he managed to live these past few years without her?

"_I hate you."_

"_Say that again."_

"_I. Hate. You."_

All his life, Eren's been the square peg in a round hole. Nothing's ever really made much sense to him. He's always been the odd one out. Always.

But with her, the opaqueness of his life bleeds forth into a sort of clarity.

But with her, the light pours in from the windows just the right way.

But with her, and _only _her, life makes a bit more sense.

"_I love you, though. I love you, Mikasa."_

"_I do, too."_

The now-foreign air of his own apartment pours into his lungs. He takes a deep breath, letting the scent of her perfume fill him.

Eren closes his eyes.

Sees her.

Her.

This time, he doesn't feel pain at the thought of her face, of her smile, at the knowledge that there's another man's engagement ring claiming her left hand. For once, he feels no sadness. He doesn't feel, doesn't hear, doesn't fret or freak or anything. He just is. Suddenly, Eren, he just _is_.

"_Stay with me."_

"_Always."_

As he opens his eyes again, he finds the spots in his apartment where Mikasa had just been. The island, his living room, the open door that leads to his room. All of these are places he'd perished many times before. On all those different spots, he's woken up after nights he can't remember, with people who's faces he could never understand, missing his heart and his soul and some parts of his belongings. Empty. Empty, so empty. But now those spaces _glow_. They're pure and bright and pretty because she'd touched them. She'd made them change. Made them better. Made him happy.

What once was cruel is now so beautiful.

That's just what the world is like when she's with him.

The snow still falls outside, white and soft and perfect. He contemplates going over to Hitch to retrieve his phone, perhaps even tell her what just happened. She'd laugh. Tease him. Bust his behind for kicking her out the way he did earlier. He contemplates the rest of his day. What will he do now? Where will he go? What's in store for the rest of the evening?

But, honestly…

Who gives a shit anymore?

Truly, nothing else matters to him. There's no point. Life's still empty and pointless but now in a whole new way. How fucked up is that? It's like he's still the same shitty person—he knows he's still the same man—but somehow now he's better. Somehow now he's _new._

Somehow now he smiles.

To himself, he smiles.

"_Say that again."_

"_Always, Eren. I will always be with you."_

Because maybe, just maybe, the girl never lied to him after all.

* * *

**A/N:** I am so baffled by the feedback I've been getting recently on tumblr and such. I mean, WOW. Your messages and reviews have made me grin so hard! Thank you guys so much! I give you all a gigantic group hug and a nice, wet, sloppy kiss. Muah!

Second, lolakasa did some fan art for Eren from last chapter. It's beautiful! (Link's in my bio)

Third, I want to talk about the smut scene ok. Everything is seen through his point of view, even the parts where we get to see Mikasa's thoughts, because it's all just conclusions he's come to from throughout the years after she left, and he's obsessed over that night and what every minuscule fragment of it meant. I'm sorry that I made the flashback come out as sputters of images and then suddenly its like BAM! BOOM! PORN! but like I said, it's all seen through his eyes, so he was probably just hit with the entirety of that night in one swift blow, all of it leaving him breathless and sweeping him off his feet like a tsunami and throwing him around a bit before spitting him back out. I don't think he _saw_ everything that happened, I think he just felt the entirety of it in one hard hit, and then it was pang after pang of pain as he felt himself sink deeper into his past.

Also, I've never written smut before until now. Haha. HA.

ALSO I SWEAR I'LL SHUT UP NOW BUT I HAVE TO SAY ONE LAST THING! About all of you wanting to see more of Hitch and Jean: Yes! We will see more of them, and also a bunch of others like Historia and Ymir and Sasha and Connie and Annie and maybe even Levi? (Although I refuse to write out that man unless I feel that I can do it correctly). But we'll see lots more, so yay.

Finally, thank you for reading. See you next chapter and hopefully talk to you very soon! My tumblr is always open, so don't ever be afraid to ask me anything if you ever want to talk.


	6. Once Upon a Time, I Met a Prince

**A/N:** I think we've progressed far enough into the story to start revealing past chapters now. These two go through a lot, so there will be plenty. Last chapter was way too long, and I'll definitely be careful never to write a chapter that long again. Anyways, flashbacks will still happen, but none need to be as long as last one anymore. We saw the very end, so now let's go back to the beginning. This is how they met.

**Warnings: **Racism.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

_.: Once Upon a Time, I Met a Prince :._

.: Chapter VI :.

* * *

They met when they were nine.

A mutual friend, Armin, had introduced them one breezy summer afternoon. The air had been thick and muggy, although spread about by the wind. There was a density to it, a sort of weight. The type of foretelling in the atmosphere before the start of something new, something magnificent.

The sibilant hiss of the trees spoke of such encounters, every turning leaf narrating the tales of queens and kings and how they met, how they stumbled upon each other on a day very much like this one. Something great was cooking. Something powerful was about to occur. The sun found its place in the sky, the clouds dispersed, nature arranged itself around them. Promises, promises. They trilled like whistles in the wind.

Mikasa couldn't have explained it for the life of her, but she understood the mystical reality of it all. Emotions bubbled up within her, threatening to corrode the calm composure she'd imposed upon herself. But still, despite fateful turns of leaves and the resonating promises of the wind, she was just a girl, and in her mind dwelled merely fairytales. And fairytales, unfortunately, did not exist.

Even nine-year-old Mikasa was a skeptic.

Her hair stuck to her forehead, but she couldn't blame it on the humidity. She was nervous. Scared, really. Raven tendrils adhered to her skin with sweat.

She was a mess.

Surely, princesses didn't fret in this manner when meeting their future kings, now did they? Did they stammer and perspire? Did they shake and forget how to form words? As far as she knew, princesses always knew exactly what to say and how to act at all times.

Sadly, that wasn't the case with her at all that day. Mikasa had been very much afraid. And in her fear, she stammered, she doubted, she frayed. Her little tiara dwindled away.

Moving to a new town meant meeting new people, making new friends—something she certainly wasn't used to. Towns bustled with traffic and adults and squealing children and barking dogs. She was used to the tranquility of living in the woods, of fishing with Papa, of helping Mama with dishes and going to bed with the warm satisfaction of a full belly, accompanied by the incessant chirping of crickets and the occasional howl of a coyote or two. But she couldn't dance ballet in the woods, and Daddy's job started demanding more than just thrice-a-week visits. And thus, they moved. And thus, there she was.

Her future stretched wide before her, glistening with promise and excitement. But when she stood beside Armin that day, before a strange, foreign boy, his small shadow cast an enormous weight on her. Sweaty, and shaking, and stammering, and forgetting how to speak, Mikasa longed for the safety of her old home, where trees were the only strangers she ever got to talk to. At least trees never judged her. At least trees never needed to be impressed.

She took a long, deep breath.

"Mikasa," Armin said, flitting a hand between her and the boy, "this is my friend, Eren."

Her dress danced in the wind. She held it down, willing the skirt still by gripping it tightly by her sides. The black polka-dots still moved around relentlessly. Stubborn, they shook along her spirit, her fortitude, her clothes.

"Hello," she voiced before swiping her bangs out of her face, quickly returning that hand down to her flowing dress to ensure its obedience. "It's really nice to meet you." (Her mother had taught her manners—and a good thing too, since she could rely on that for bureaucratic use of speech). She couldn't help feeling a bit proud of herself for the accomplishment. Trees, suddenly, were no longer enticing friends.

The boy, however, took a while to reply. He blinked slowly, squinting his eyes, gauging her existence as if he were making her out through a tactless blur.

She, too, stared at him.

His expression bemused her—not to mention that it made her ten times more insecure than what she already was. His brows came together in a frown. His gaze pierced straight through her in a way that made her her own drop down to his knees, where she saw scrapes, dried-up blood, a grubby band-aid clinging (just barely) to his left shin. He was, in every sense,_ odd._

Armin stood awkwardly between them, waiting for his friend to—finally—wipe his nose with the back of his hand, sniffle, and talk.

"Hi!"

That was it. That's all he told her.

The first Major Thing Mikasa noticed, as she blinked at the odd child, was his hair. It was crazy. It had a life of its own, standing out like unruly soldiers and fluttering sideways in the breeze, throwing his bangs over his forehead, some stands glowing yellow in the sunlight and swaying like the agitated leaves all around.

The second Major Thing, oddly enough, was his eyelashes. She had always thought boys couldn't grow long eyelashes. She realized then that she'd been wrong.

The third Major Thing was the pinkness of his cheeks, ruddy from exercise and perhaps too much shouting. They matched her own cheeks. She didn't know boys' cheeks could turn pink either.

His attention seemed to bounce around like a ball, jumping this way and that and never really staying in one place. His eyes, bright green and shining, shot to Armin, then to her, then to Armin again and then right down to the dirty soccer ball he held in his hands before he looked once more to his friend and said, "Hey, does this mean she can play with us?"

"Play with you?" Mikasa echoed, still holding her dress. Her voice wavered, but the boy didn't seem to notice, for in his expression flourished with something far too excited to be nullified by her own qualms.

"Yeah!" and then his giddy attention focused on her. Her hair blew over her face again. She didn't bother scolding it. "You could be in my team!"

"Eren," Armin chided, "she can't."

Then, that was when she noticed the fourth Major Thing: his eyes possessed a strange undertone (or overtone, she wasn't sure) of blue. The color flared through when he gaped tragically, "Why not?"

"Because," their friend whispered secretively, bringing up a hand to cup one side of his mouth, "she's wearing a dress."

"So?"

"So she can't play soccer."

"I don't get it."

"She could trip and fall. Her dress could get caught on something."

"But it's an open field!"

"She'll get hurt, Eren."

This made him pout. Frown. Slump his shoulders.

"Shit."

Mikasa gasped, covering her mouth, aghast at the word he'd just spoken. Seriously? Did he just say that?! The s-word was a big no no in her household. If her parents had heard him talk like that, he would've been in trouble. Her ears felt dirty just by hearing him, and his presence suddenly perturbed her; but when she turned to peer at Armin, the blonde didn't seem to be affected by his obscenity at all.

"Eren," he sighed, "please," but then said no more.

When the boy turned his gaze on her again, she saw that not only were his eyes green with blue and fringed by his lengthy lashes which touched the tops of his rosy cheeks whenever he blinked, but she also saw that they held little flakes of fire in them, burning bright, bright gold and dazzling her. That was the fifth Major Thing she saw.

"I'll get someone else on my team then," Eren settled. And just like that, the boy swiveled on his heels and walked away.

It felt like the leaves turned again, but this time to the opposite direction.

Did princes ever leave their princesses like that?

In her heart, she realized, there was pain. Some dull sting reminiscent of disappointment, like the one she feels whenever Mama bakes apple pie instead of chocolate cake for dessert. She couldn't understand it, but it was as if her heart wasn't agreeing with the current string of events. Like things weren't meant to go this way.

She was left to stand there with her weird emotions as her lips parted in a fruitless attempt to speak. She stared at the back of the boy's head, her eyes drifting up and down the length of his body until suddenly he turned around, threw his hair out of his eyes, smiled at her.

At that instant, she noticed the final Major Thing:

A dimple.

Very small.

His teeth were lined neatly save for a single crooked lateral incisor, screaming out as the only imperfection as his lips stretched so wide they created a tiny indentation by the corner of his mouth. His grin was flashy and astounding, a blasphemy in some way, a burst of emotion she seldom saw on other children (not that she ever really _saw_ other children, to be frank). Her eyes lingered on that strange dimple for some reason. It was as if she were imagining it. Mikasa blinked at it multipled times, unsure of whether it was truly there. Like with fairytales, she found herself a skeptic.

"It was nice to meet you, Ackerman!" he tweeted before vanishing, jogging back to the band of squealing children in the park, leaving her to gape at Armin as he merely shrugged at her and sighed.

"He's kinda weird a little," he told her. "You'll get used to him."

All she could think to do was nod, revise the list of Major Things she'd just discovered, and wonder how it was the child knew her last name. Surely, she couldn't remember ever giving it to him.

He left a big impression on her, that boy. The sun shone and the clouds moved and the leaves hissed and Mikasa wondered what was wrong with her, for she felt ill in his absence. His presence lingered even after he was gone, the way soft smoke does after a fire's been extinguished.

**—****o****—**

School was a nightmare.

Mama's benign expressions and Papa's set of thumbs up didn't do much to encourage her either. In the sea of unfamiliar faces, Mikasa was the odd one out. The guppy. The tiny one. The weakling. The scarce. Even teachers bared knives for teeth. Everyone was a shark. Everyone was out to get her.

On the first day of fourth grade, Mama had been kind enough to drive Mikasa to school, as she felt that taking the bus would induce a mild episode of panic. She'd been right, of course. Mama was always right in everything. It was one of the powers that came with being an adult: predictability.

Hopping out of the van, after re-adjusting the straps of her backpack on her shoulders, Mikasa took a very deep breath and told God that if He helped her that day, then she would swear to eat all of her veggies at dinnertime when she got home. Mikasa didn't believe in fairytales, but she was a firm believer in God.

And so she whispered, under her breath, "Give me strength, Kami, and I promise I will eat all the broccoli tonight." Kami was what she called her God. She'd decided on the name a few years prior, after asking Mama what God was called in Japanese. Kami, she had answered. And thus Kami God now was.

Mikasa was a child of many questions, but the howling wilderness of elementary school silenced her curiosity and pushed it into a very private space within herself, where it would surely never come out of again. Her voice deteriorated in her throat. Her breath disintegrated in her lungs. What once were vivid questions, pulsating with the promise of answers that practically glowed, now wilted and fell apart inside her.

Mikasa wanted to cry.

Once Mama gave her the day's goodbye kiss (on the forehead, like always) Mikasa swallowed a large gulp of air to ease the pain and fear. Mama had then whispered small encouragements, given her a tiny shove, and watched as little Mikasa waddled away, sparing a few back glances or two only to be met by a mother's wide encouraging smile, her set of onyx-gray eyes that matched her own twinkling more and more the wider she grinned. The farther Mikasa got away from her, the more she felt like sprinting back. Step, after step, after step, the girl kept walking, until she was so far away from her mother that she couldn't see her anymore.

Mikasa wanted to cry.

"Give me strength, Kami. Give me strength."

She was tiny and weightless, carried off by the current and swept into the crowd of people, the sea of sharks, the ocean of terror. Her throat tightened into a knot and tears pricked her eyes. She was scared. She was nervous. She was terribly intimidated and yet, somehow, still equally as excited.

She was silent.

All morning, Mikasa was silent.

She didn't speak unless told to do so. She scribbled quietly on her notebooks, doodled flowers and ponies (two balls and a set of stick legs and a long tail, that's a pony) and studied the world around her with quick, fleeting eyes. The only time her vocal chords strained to make any sort of noise was when it was her turn to introduce herself to the class. "Mikasa Ackerman," she boomed in first period, making a few of the kids jump. She made a mental note: _Next time, say it more quietly._

Science, Math, English, all periods went the same. What was her name? Mikasa Ackerman. Was she new to the school? Yes, she was. Was this her first time going to a private school? Yes, indeed. It was also her first time going to a school in general. She'd been home schooled all her life. Did she have friends in this school? Yes. She had a friend named Armin but he didn't come to school that day 'cause he was sick. Armin was always sick. (They never bothered her much after that comment.)

And so the day rolled on, and after a period or two Mikasa's uneasiness settled. She found that school wasn't as hard and she'd initially thought it would be. All she had to do was sit quietly and pay attention—and even when the subjects got boring and she found her focus flittering away, all she had to do was play pretend. She was good at that, playing pretend. In her mind, she built castles, kingdoms, thrones. She soared. The teachers never noticed.

The first day of school was moving along smoothly. With a tinge of happiness, Mikasa saw the sharks around her turn to friends. She liked it here. She could stay. She couldn't wait to tell her parents about her wonderful first day.

But then last period came.

It was art class.

One would think such a class would be the easiest, right? That's what Mikasa had thought. She'd been wrong.

The teacher insisted that all students take turns writing their names on the chalkboard and then proceed to share a fun fact about themselves, so that the other kids would get a start in knowing them—even if they were all acquaintances already. The assignment was both terrorizing and pointless. When the teacher had demanded such an introduction, Mikasa blanched.

She sweated, she frayed, she stammered.

She prayed to Kami. She revised their truce. _Give me strength and I'll eat the veggies. Give me strength and I'll eat them all. Even the carrots. Even the peas. Give me strength, God, and I will do it. _She was half-way through her fourth or fifth revision when it was suddenly her turn to go.

The air was still.

The room brimmed with silence.

She pushed her chair back with an ear-splitting screech, arose, balled her small hands into fists and ignored the fact that they were shaking. They itched to be wrung together, the way they always did when she was nervous. But she fought, she fought. She reminded God of their deal and mentally prepared herself for the task ahead.

Taking a large inhale, she took a dive into the depths of the ocean. Not even sharks would take her. She could do it. She was brave. It was simple: write your name, spill a fun fact about yourself, and then never repeat the procedure again. Never. She could do it. She was strong.

Finally, Mikasa stood before the sea of children. The teacher, Mrs. Ral, gave a small nod.

_Go on,_ she mouthed to her. Go on.

And so she did.

"My name is Mikasa Ackerman." Her voice bounced from head to head, from blinking eye to blinking eye, and she watched as it reached each of her classmates' ears until, suddenly, a startling pair of teal-green circles inundated her vision and sunk her confidence into the farthest reaches of her soul.

Her heart stopped and gasped.

Her tummy fluttered with a swarm of butterflies and Mikasa, poor Mikasa, forgot what she was just about to say or do. She couldn't remember why she stood before her classmates and Mrs. Ral anymore. The leaves turned, the sun shone, nature assembled. She saw all of it in those eyes. She saw all of it.

Eren stared at her.

With his bangs over his forehead, his long lashes flitting patiently with every slow blink of his eyes, his cheeks no longer pink but the pencil he chewed on was redolent of the same color. She didn't know boys used pink pencils. She didn't know Eren was in this class. She didn't know anything.

Eren stared at her.

Mikasa looked away.

Mrs. Ral's voice broke the silence.

"Sweetie," she pointed at the large chalkboard behind the trembling child, "write your name."

"Oh." The classroom swelled with a twang of laughter. The kids all giggled among themselves as Mrs. Ral tried to shush them. Before turning around to grip the worn stick of chalk, Mikasa stole a quick peek at the boy she'd met only a few days ago.

Eren wasn't laughing.

Everyone around him, though, still was.

"Quiet," Mrs. Ral hissed at the children. After a few seconds, they finally obeyed.

_Shriek, shriek, screeeeech! _The chalk was a cringe-inducing cacophony as she drew her name on the board. As soon as a neat, meticulous _Mikasa Ackerman_ was written out in large letters, she turned around and made her way back to her chair hastily. The teacher, though, promptly objected before she could get far.

"Wait, whoa, don't go yet." The children laughed again, louder this time. "Shh! Kids, please." Mikasa swallowed down the lump inside her throat, the tears straining to burgeon. "You're not done yet, honey."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." Mrs. Ral scribbled something down on her notebook, half-sitting on her desk. Her foot, suspended, swung back and forth in the air like the mocking arm of a clock. Tick, tock. Back and forth. Counting down the seconds. "That's an interesting name you have there, Mikasa." _Is it really? _"Do you know what it means?"

Her lips parted. She breathed through them. She closed her eyes until the tears were gone, and then she spoke.

"Papa says I was named after a battleship."

Quiet laughter.

"A battleship?" The teacher's eyes were wide. Did she say something wrong? Self-conscious, Mikasa wrung her little hands together and swallowed, nodded her head.

"Mhm."

"Oh. Interesting. Very interesting." She scribbled on the notebook again, writing down her grown up teacher stuff. Mikasa smoothed out a strand of hair that poked out of her bun, feeling all eyes on her—especially the unique teal-green ones. "Can you tell us a fact about yourself?"

"Um…" Sunlight filtered in through the large windows. Specks of dust shimmered in the light. Mikasa thought of how they floated, how they danced...

"I taught myself how to dance ballet."

"Really? That's so interesting!" (Sweet God. Was everything interesting to this woman?)

"Thank you." (Mama taught her manners, though. Remember that.)

"You're the new student, aren't you?" Mrs. Ral was smiling. Her teeth were snowy white and complemented by the lovely features of her face. Her expression was soft and captivating. Marveling, Mikasa watched the way she ran her fingers through her strawberry blonde hair, how it fell just to her shoulders, how her lithe posture tilted as she shifted around to sit more comfortably on the desk. There was an ethereal air to her. She reminded Mikasa of a queen.

Linking her fingers together over her lap, the small girl answered. "Yes."

"Did you hear that, kids? It's Mikasa's very first day here. Say, 'welcome to our school, Mikasa.'"

"Welcome to our school, Mikasa," they all droned cohesively.

"Thank you," she murmured to the group.

Mrs. Ral was still smiling. Her eyes were honey-colored and warm. Her gentle lips glistened with a sheen layer of lip gloss. Her eyelashes were coated with mascara and stuck out far, curving upwards like feathery arcs. She'd never seen a grown up like her before. Her graceful aura reminded her of Mama.

"Is there anything you would like to say to the class?"

Mikasa shook her head. "No, ma'm."

"No other fun facts about yourself? You're new. We could use the bonus."

"Well, I really like chocolate."

"That's so nice! Anything else?"

"I'm four feet, three inches tall."

"You're taller than my daughter. Is there anything you like to do besides ballet?"

"I like to play with my dolls."

"She still plays with dolls?" she heard a girl titter. Mikasa swallowed, trying very hard to ignore.

"Do you have a favorite one?"

"I'm sorry?"

"A favorite doll, honey. Do you have one?"

Her eyes shot to the whispering child, whom was smiling at her friend and giggling softly. Were kids not supposed to play with dolls? Did she say something funny? Why were those girls laughing?

Her eyes flickered to Eren.

He no longer chewed on the pink pencil. He stared at her. There wasn't any expression on his face. He was watching her so intently, Mikasa felt pinned by the weight of his gaze. When the kid behind him leaned forward to whisper something in his ear, Eren didn't even react to him.

The girl continued laughing with her friend. Mikasa swallowed. Every quiet tee-hee-hee that came out of her shook her soul.

"No," she voiced finally, "I don't have one," even though she did. Ningyo had been her favorite doll since she was a baby. The thought of her mottled flesh and tattered hair made her think of home, which only worsened her feeling of uneasiness.

She thought of Mama's smiles.

Of Papa's thumbs up.

Of her deal with God.

"What else can you tell us about yourself, sweetie?" the teacher pushed, swinging her foot, cocking her head to one side. "Any cool skills? Can you whistle or roll your tongue?"

"No, I can't."

"Then what can you do?"

"I know how to kill a duck."

Gasps.

The entire classroom was a chorus of gasps—even Mrs. Ral gave a startled noise.

Did she say something wrong?

"Oh, wow." The teacher held a hand to her chest. "Really?"

Everyone's eyes were wide. Everyone's except for Eren's.

"Yes..."

"How come you know how to, uh, do that?"

"My father hunts. He takes me with him sometimes."

More gasps.

Eren was smiling now.

"Okaaaaaaaaay." Mrs. Ral elongated the word, giving a nervous chuckle. "And, uh… what ethnicity are you?"

She glanced down at her hands, woven together before her knee-length skirt. Mikasa felt the tears begin to sting again after hearing another girl whisper, "Is she stupid?"

Why was the world so cruel?

"Maybe she _is _stupid."

She felt ill with home-sickness. She wanted nothing more than to be in Mama's arms.

"Yeah. I bet."

She just wanted to go home.

"...I'm half Japanese," she breathed, realizing suddenly that she was the only Asian in her class. This only made her feel even_ more _terrible. She wished she could vanish. Into thin air, vanish. She stood naked before the entire class, so that when the kids all came together to spew out comments about her under their breaths, they induced the ultimate damage. She heard them, every single one. Every. Single. One. Their words were like fire balls being hurled across the room and straight at her.

Powerless, the small girl burned.

"She's a Jap."

"Ew."

"I thought she was Chinese."

"She doesn't look Chinese."

"They all look the same to me."

"That's mean."

"What? It's true."

"They all have funny names too."

"She's named after a battleship."

"Pffft! A battleship!"

"She's ugly."

"All Asians are ugly. And short."

"Look how puny she is."

"I think she's pretty."

"You're blind."

"I like her hair."

"She's a gook."

"A gook? What's that?"

"I dunno. It's what Dad calls Asians."

"I think it means chicken curry."

"Chicken curry?"

"Yeah. Gook is chicken curry."

"No, it's not, you weirdo."

"Hey, that's a bad word."

"Weirdo?"

"Yeah."

"Can you guys shut the fuck up?"

"Eren, you cursed!"

"Well, your voice is annoying and you're bothering me. Be quiet."

"I'm gonna tell my mom you said that."

"Go ahead. I'll punch your face in."

"Eren!"

"Hey, we're just kidding about the gook thing."

"Chicken curry."

"Shh."

"Do you think she can hear us?"

"I don't know. She looks like she's about to cry."

"That's funny."

"I hope she does."

"Jap tears."

"Hey, that's racist."

"What does racist mean?"

"Pffft. Jap tears."

"Gook tears."

"Chicken curry tears."

They all laughed.

Mikasa closed her eyes.

Why was the world so cruel?

Devastated, she thought of Mama. Of her slanted eyes, her silky black hair, her dainty pallor, her lithe fingers and long nails. The beauty she possessed so gracefully, the one she'd passed down to her with pride. She felt the tears welling in her eyes, her spirit trampled by the children's harshness. Did Mrs. Ral not hear them? Were their whispers not loud enough for her to catch? Mikasa felt them all in her soul. They stung tremendously. They drew cracks on her heart. Gook. Jap. Ugly. Chicken Curry. Who knew children could be so mean? Kami had deserted her, it seemed. And so, biting down her quivering lip, she mustered her own strength and refused to allow the tears to fall. She wouldn't let them to see her cry. She would not give them the satisfaction.

"And the other half?" Mrs. Ral asked calmly, as if time had stopped through the duration of the children's bickers and now it warped and resumed again. Mikasa didn't even look at her. Opening her eyes, she whispered quietly.

"Please, Mrs. Ral. I just want to sit."

"Oh?" The teacher straightened, and the pause that followed was curious. She scrutinized Mikasa. For a second, she thought she'd even refuse her the right to sit. But she didn't. Mrs. Ral glances down at her wristwatch and told her, "Alright. Thank you, Mikasa. You may take your seat."

And so she did.

By the time her butt hit the flat surface of the chair, Mikasa's tears had chilled in her eyes. She didn't cry, which was good, but she felt the pieces of her heart fall off slowly, bit by bit, until finally there was nothing left of it anymore, and her gentle spirit seared with rage. It was not fair. She'd never done a bad thing to anybody. She didn't deserve this treatment from her peers. She relinquished her truce with Kami. She stared out the window, straight into the sun, not caring if she went blind or anything. She watched the leaves turn on the trees outside, and pretended she could feel the breeze caress her skin, the sunlight warm her cheeks, the trees talking to her. She pretended she was in the woods, in her old home, petting animals and catching bugs and showing them to Papa. She pretended she could smell duck roasting in the oven, grass needles ticking the soles of her bare feet. Her toes wiggled in her school shoes. She pretended she could feel the weight of a crown on her head, a crown woven from her hands and made of flowers. Mikasa was good at making flower crowns. With a spiritual sigh, the young princess longed.

She missed her home.

She hated school.

School was utterly atrocious.

Yeah. Atrocious. That was the word.

She decided: after getting home, she'll convince her parents to take her out of private school. She never wanted to see these kids—or even Mrs. Ral—ever again. She'd demand to be home schooled for the rest of her life, and after eating dinner and refusing to eat her veggies, she would brush Ningyo's hair, fix her into one of the dresses Mama has sown for her, and then she'd let her rest on the pillow right next to her own, pull the blanket up to her chin so that she wouldn't get cold, kiss her goodnight, and go to sleep with the promise of a new day, a day which will never return to this _atrocious _place again.

With her new plan, Mikasa felt some small sense of relief. Yes. She would do it. She would rid herself of this place and focus solely on ballet.

She was smiling then. The tears were gone.

A new hope dawned inside of her. Mikasa stared out the window for so long that her neck began to cramp. She didn't think of where else she would care to look, for she'd leave this place behind anyway, so she continued to stare out at the sun—until suddenly she heard a familiar voice crow triumphantly, "Finally, it's my turn."

Immediately, Mikasa turned her head.

Eren was scribbling on the chalkboard, drawing out his name in sharp, choppy letters, all out of order, some tilting up, some tilting down, nodding drunkenly. His handwriting was hasty and messy. He wrote his name right next to hers, so that the disastrous _Eren Jager_ contrasted the elegant _Mikasa Ackerman_ so much it left her in awe.

"My name— Wait. I missed a letter."

He turned back around and drew an 'e' next to the 'a' in his last name. It was squished in there, barely decipherable, but his name now read _Eren Jaeger_. Mikasa blinked. Then blinked again. She'd stared at the sun for so long that black spots slid around in her vision. Still, she saw the way Eren then proceeded to turn around, how the whisper of a smirk consumed his lips and grew into a smile.

"My name is Eren Jaeger," he grinned—with no dimple, Mikasa noticed, this time. "But all of you already knew that. My name has a pretty cool meaning, too, my mom says. It means, 'saint'. Don't laugh. I know it's very iconic."

"Ironic," Mrs. Ral corrected. Eren's mouth stayed open where she'd interrupted him. He blinked at her, bemused.

"Say what?"

"Ironic," she repeated. "The word you're looking for is ironic, Eren. Not iconic."

"Right. Thank you." He cleared his throat, and the way he stood, the way he spoke, it was like he was going a hundred miles per second. At least, that's how Mikasa felt it was. His voice made her feel dizzy. Each breath he took in before talking drew her attention solely onto him. She eyed him the entire time he talked, each word spilling out of him freely and candidly. He didn't seem nervous at all. All eyes were on him and still he was comfortable. He welcomed all the gazes, the way airports welcome planes before they land.

"Anyway," the boy continued. A hundred miles per hour. A dizzying effect. "I like to draw and I'm trying to teach myself how to play the guitar but most days it doesn't go the way I want it to. I kinda suck at it."

"Language, Eren."

"Sorry, Mrs. Ral. My favorite food is pizza with extra cheese. I can't kill a duck but I'm pretty good at soccer so I guess that's cool too. Also, I can whistle really loud. _Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! _That's my whistle. I can't roll my tongue, though. I don't really know how tall I am but last time I checked, I was the tallest kid in this class."

"No, you're not!" a kid objected.

"Shut up. I'm still taller than you."

"Eren, be nice."

"Sorry, Mrs. Ral. My parents are both of German descent, which makes me full German or something. Not that I know how to speak German. I just know how to say 'I love you.' _Ich liebe dich_. Cool, huh? I heard Dad say it once to Mom, which is gross. Also, _dummkopf_ means idiot."

"Language."

"Sorry, Mrs. Ral. Also, I know how to say a few words in Spanish but not much. And French. I think languages are awesome. Speaking of Germany, I hear the best chocolate comes from that place. But I think chocolate's nasty. I hate it. It makes me gag."

"Wow, Eren. That's a lot of information you're giving us today."

"Thanks. I know."

"What's the occasion?"

He sighed a bit dramatically, swiping his bangs out of his eyes. "Well, you see..."

Suddenly, his eyes were on Mikasa.

She froze.

"I saw what you did to the new girl today," Eren voiced, now a bit sheepish, which was new, "and I think it's only fair that if she has to say so much about herself for us to get to know her, then we should do the same for her. That way, she gets to know us too."

"That's… an interesting point, Eren."

His eyes were off of her.

Mikasa breathed again.

"Thanks. I know."

"Anything else?"

"I tried ballet once. Broke my knee."

"Eren..."

"Okay, that was a lie," he laughed. A fruity laugh. "But I just thought that it'd be funny. Imagine me in a tutu!"

"Take your seat, kid."

"Of course."

He trotted over to his chair. The children murmured. The teacher chuckled then sighed. The one up next stood up, said their name, drew it on the chalkboard. The monotony of the day continued but within Mikasa, something stirred.

She realized.

_He just answered all the questions that were asked to me._

He answered them all and even poked fun at himself so that she would feel less embarrassed. Was it kindness? Did he really need to say all of that out loud? By the looks of it, everyone in this classroom already knew him. All that information wasn't necessary. Did he really just stand in front of everyone and said all those things for _her_? To make _her_ feel better? For _her_ to know him? What?

Mikasa pondered.

Should she be flattered?

Should she be offended?

How was she supposed to feel?

Tentatively, Mikasa turned her head and peered over her shoulder to where Eren sat, chewing on his pink pencil, already staring at her. For a moment, she held his gaze, debating whether she should make some sort of gesture to thank him, or even scold him.

"_It was nice to meet you, Ackerman!"_

Suddenly, it dawned on her that he already knew last name. In a sense, she was bound to him more than to the others already just for that. And then he'd gone along and done _that. _

As a nine-year-old, Mikasa had a lot of thoughts. They clouded her judgment sometimes. This was one of those times. She turned and looked away from him.

Staring out at the sun again, she thought of the way princes sometimes save their princesses. It's not always done on horseback, in glistening armors, with thrashing swords and skyward cries of victories. Sometimes, it is done humbly and in secrecy. With a joke. With a smile. With all the gentleness in the world.

She turned again to look at Eren.

He wasn't looking at her. She waited until he was.

When his green eyes with the blue undertone/overtone and specks of fire finally met hers, she smiled at him. He smiled at her. His dimple flashed. She turned back around, felt a hiccup in her heart.

It wasn't much, but, for now, it was her way of saying thank you. She told Kami that the truce still stood. Tonight, she was eating all her veggies. All of them.

Even the peas.

* * *

**A/N: **I've been feeling very discouraged with this story, I'm not going to lie. If you read this, please be sure to leave a review or some sort of feedback somehow. Show your support. It makes the world of a difference.

Next chapter, we'll be going back to the present. That's the plan, at least. Until next time!


	7. Baby, It's Cold Outside

**A/N:** When I mentioned that I was discouraged, I wasn't expecting to receive such positive feedback from you guys. I got over 20 reviews from last chapter on this site alone, and that's insane! Thank you all so much for your support. I can't tell you what it means to me. Initially, I planned not to update the story until it gained more followers, but your kindness has prompted me to release this chapter sooner. You will never know the joy you guys bring me, and for that I thank you with all my heart.

**PS:** Yay to meeting new characters, and especially Annie! Special thanks to my dear friend Jess for helping me make sure she was in character here, and for proof reading this entire thing. She's a life saver.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _Baby, It's Cold Outside_ :.

.: Chapter VII :.

* * *

It is incredibly draining.

Her eyes, although closed in rest, do not fail to see the constant spinning of the events that take place in her mind. Within dreams, Mikasa wanders. Her feet land on familiar floors, wooden thumps that echo in the furthest depths of her consciousness. The walls—nude, pale, and pastel—sing songs of childhood and of home. The air permeates the smell of her mother's hair, her father's most recent kill roasting in the fire. And because the two scents oddly combine into a soothing fragrance, her steps are lured to the small kitchen of their house, only to find no trace of her mother, nothing cooking in a fire, no flames to smoke or roast. Still, the vestiges of use remain around, as if something had been cooking in the coal-based oven, as if someone had been there just moments before. She's late, that's all. In the fire pit, the embers whisper the last glows of their lives before dying.

Suddenly, she's somewhere else.

If she were to reach out her hand, she would feel it: the gritty texture of the stucco walls of the basement, where Mama sits to sew and hum quietly to herself, where Papa likes to lounge and simply watch her. If she were to look closer, she would see it: the shimmer in his steely eyes as he marvels at his wife, the crinkles that form by their corners when he smiles at something she says. If she were to speak, she'd call out to both of them and turn their necks, make them look at her, see their smirks grow into smiles and the reverent silence break with a soft utterance of her name.

_Welcome home, Mikasa. _

Welcome home.

But her hand reaches out to find the rumpled sheets of the bed she now lays in. Her eyes open to meet the dull blur of a gray morning, an empty apartment, a deserted space beside her on the bed. She moves. Only to turn away from the light of day and pull the sheets over her head to fend off the loneliness, she moves.

It's Christmas today.

And Jean, of course, is working.

It is incredibly draining. To have these dreams, to long for their reality, to reach out to specters that feel too perfect only to wake up and remember: oh, right, reality sucks. Yesterday, it had been Armin. Today, it's Mom and Dad. Countless mornings before that, it'd been a low, husky voice breathing words that would abandon her as soon as she bolted to a wake, her spirit buzzing in the aftermath, trembling with an echo as she stared vacantly ahead. Seconds. That's all it took for her to know who had been talking to her in her sleep. Seconds, and that's it.

Eren dreams are the absolute_ worst_.

Just the same day she'd gotten back from his apartment, her mind had done a pretty fine job of keeping his memory at bay. Pretending. Mikasa was good at that. She pretended not to see, not to feel, not to hear all the puny things around her that brought him sprinting to her mind. The color blue, or green, or gold; warm smells like incense or woolen clothing. Walking home, she'd avoided cafes and anything that could possibly contain the smell of coffee. Or chocolate. She'd pulled her scarf up to her nose and breathed through it, but even that held a tinge of his home too.

She couldn't pull him off of her. For the life of her, she couldn't. She could feel his scent on her clothes and hair, the rim of his mug against her lips, the earth tones of his apartment reaching out to grab her through the snow. And how fortunate she was that it was winter, that smells hardly loitered in the air and everything around was either gray or white or covered in ice. Her surroundings held no trace of him and yet he flickered momentarily, once or twice, like fathomed shards that materialized to taunt her, and then swiftly melt away.

Okay, fine. So maybe her mind _didn't _do that great of a job at keeping him out of her, but she did try. Very hard, she did. She'd even gone shopping, for what it's worth, picking out some random object before hauling up a cab straight home. And when she showed up with the Victoria's Secret bag hanging from an elbow, greeted Jean and recited the events of her day, she'd even shut the tiny whisper of her conscience out. _Here you go, lying to him again_, it seethed. Mikasa promptly reminded her inner voice to cork it.

"_I saw you took the credit card," _he'd told her.

"_I bought something on the way here."_

"_Can I see?"_

And you won't believe the look on his face—both their faces, really—when what she pulled out of the bag was a flimsy g-string that made every nuance in her being wail in fright. The thing was tinier than the palm of her hand, and, gaping as it dangled from her finger and before her fiancé's (also gaping) face, her rankled brain scrambled for an explanation as to how the fuck—and just_ what_ the fuck she had been thinking to pick out something like that. Perhaps it was the sudden craze of it all, what with seeing Eren again in full light for the first time in nearly six years her usually-trained thoughts were sure to suffer some consequences, but who in their right mind would purchase a thing like that? God damn. The contraption was nothing more than a triangle with strings. _Strings_. Imagine the giant gulp she took once she realized one of them was supposed go in between her ass cheeks.

"_Whoa." _Even Jean seemed slightly terrified of it._ "That's… new."_

A nervous chuckle had fleeted out of her, and as if the situation wasn't already embarrassing enough, she realized suddenly that it was a bright, resonating shade of pink. Like bubble gum but brighter, and flaming, and edging on the brink of damn near phosphorescent. Every inch (barely) of that thing screamed torture.

"_I didn't know you wore underwear like that." _Neither did she._"I'm… actually, a little shocked."_

"_I just thought I could try something different?" _Lie. To be honest, nothing could be farther from the truth. The weird thong thingy reminded her of the underwear she'd seen earlier that day hanging on Eren's lamp shade. With a spiritual shudder, she realized that it really _did_ resemble the horrific item of clothing, except that it had less lace, more string, and it was way smaller.

How would it feel like to wear it? It certainly wasn't even her size. The triangle shape (which she supposed was there to cover her crotch area) looked like it could potentially do only half of its job. Oh, Lord. Nothing could be more displeasing to the imagination's eye. She would never wish such a fate upon anyone. So then why the everliving crud did she _buy_ it for herself?

Eren had a beautiful way of rendering her senseless. And stupid. And appalled.

It took Jean a few seconds to fully gauge the thing. And once he took it in his hands, stretched it out to see it completely, a half-grin seized his lips and he peered down at his flushing fiancée.

"_You should wear them tonight." _

Rest in peace, butt crack.

With a drowsy smile, Mikasa runs her fingers down his spot on the bed. The sheets are cold, his body heat having long abandoned them, and they susurrate against her touch, rustling when she crumples up a bunch in her hand.

And then, just as quickly, this small pocket of serenity leaves.

Grimly, she's reminded that reality is despondent. There's going to be a party later on tonight, and Jean plans to take her. Jiji should be fine enough without them. They will not be gone for long.

In her mind, she prepares herself for the events of this dreadful day: cleaning, more cleaning, some aimless laying about and a healthy conversation with their cat. She will be a good fiancée, dress up all pretty for her man, greet him with a kiss and a smile and exclaim her excitement for the evening that is to come, how much she loves his friends and his mother, how good they all are to her. It's not a lie when it's acting. It's not just petty falsehood when it's playing pretend. There is something to be accomplished, a truth to be told, elaborated through a different method, that's all. Curling into a little ball, she reminds herself:

She will be a good fiancée.

She will be a good wife.

She will be a good mother.

She will be _happy._

There's a point to every day, a purpose to why the daylight pours in demandingly through the cracks of the curtains, why Jiji meows for her to rise and feed him, why her lungs hurt but there's still oxygen rushing through them, blood coursing in her veins, life reverberating, pounding in her chest. She has her plan set out before her. She's etched her future into stone. There's a point. There's a purpose.

But she has long since forgotten it.

Jiji doesn't have to meow more than twice today. Compliant, tired, and submissive, Mikasa brings herself to stand. The carpet in their room is soft under her feet, the hardwood floors of their living room smooth, the tiles of their kitchen floor frigid. She feels it all but even then it's like she's floating. Do her limbs move by themselves? Does her body no longer function by command but more upon instinct, the way a heart beats and eyelids blink automatically without the mind's consent? Who knows? Who cares? She feeds their cat, crouches down to watch him, runs her fingers through her mussed hair.

With every snowless Christmas, comes a great degree of pain. That, too, is incredibly draining.

Closing her eyes, Mikasa thinks of home: of stucco walls and smirks that flourish into smiles; of shimmering eyes and the soft thrum of lullabies. Mama's voice. Papa. Of small hands ripping wrappers off of presents and exclaiming in delight. Of Christmas music bouncing in the air and dancing in their muscles. Everything being safe. Everything being simple and innocent and in peace.

But she's not a little girl anymore, no matter how bad she wishes that she was. She's not. She's not. She's not.

Her butt's the first to hit the cold tiles, then the back of her thighs, her calves, the heels of her feet, she shoulder blades, her head. Her spine aches with discomfort but so does everything else internally so what difference does it make? She has a wedgie. Of course. But suddenly now she's far too drained to pull it. And her butt cheeks press against the tiled floor which, okay, is_ really_ friggin' cold and makes goosebumps raise on her skin and harden her nipples against the fabric of her fiancé's t-shirt—which she wears, pathetically enough, with much sadness, clinging somehow to his presence through the scarcity of his scent. It smells just like him—and not cologne-showered, gel-slathered him, but_ him_ him. Like his hair. Like his skin. Like the man she loves and is going to (very soon) marry.

She will be a good fiancée.

She will be a good wife.

She will be a good mother.

She. Will. Be. Happy.

But an inexplicable emptiness erodes her fortitude now, in this very moment, in this very minute, regardless of the future they have planned. And when her eyes close, long hair splayed around her head on the floor, sides billowing with an inhale, panties digging into her ass, Mikasa sees it.

Green.

Blue.

Gold.

And then _scars_.

Splayed across a broad chest randomly like flecks of fire splattered on by the swift swing of a paintbrush, gashing and burning themselves into permanent existence, some even trickling down to the taut ripples of an abdomen, all of them like shooting stars forever frozen into place. A large one on a right palm. A tiny one on a bicep. A faded one just above a brow. Veins that run like rivulets in tan skin, and the single thick one that protrudes the muscled length of an upper arm. And when she takes a deep breath, she smells it.

Pine.

Lemon.

Wood.

Earthy, citrusy, musky. Him.

Old spice. Coffee. Chocolate. Books. Just oxygen in general is filled with him, damn it. Mikasa runs her hands down her face, sighing. Does the past have a smell? Can it all be carried in the confined spaces of a single body? Is a single man ample to bottle it all up? Are scarred hands enough to hold the foundation of ten years of her life that will never return to her? Is half of her childhood, and more, all woven into the patterns of two teal-green eyes? When will anything around her make any goddamn sense anymore?

Memories dance like shadows in her vision, and when her lips part to speak, they call out to no one. "Fuck," she breathes. Yeah. Fuck. A crude, harsh word she hasn't uttered in forever. Her tummy ripples with a drop of excitement. What a rebel she's being. She spends one day with Eren, and now look at what she's become.

"Fuck," she says again, only louder, more daring, more free. "Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!"

Then she's snorting. Giggling. Covering her mouth and wriggling around. Jiji purrs as he walks around her head, giving her a cavalier look like the one Hitch had worn when she'd answered Eren's door. Before her mind can transfix itself on that day again, on the rich taste of hot chocolate that still tingles her tongue and the sudden twitch that made her burst into laughter the likes of which she hadn't experienced in years and the hands that framed her own and pushed a book closer to her body, Jiji darts off to the other room, leaves the plate of cat food unfinished.

"Well," she tells him, even though he's far away, "fuck you too."

**—o—**

"Agh, fuck!"

"You're getting rusty, Jaeger."

"Ow. Okay, ow."

"Cacaw?"

"In your drea— OW!"

"Say it."

"N-no— OW! SHIT! OKAY!"

"Say it."

"Cacaw. Cacaw-haw."

"Louder."

"Annie, fucking _fuck_!"

"Hm?"

"Stop being so— AH! I said CACAW!"

Reiner snorts, bringing a water bottle up to his lips for a sip. Wiping his mouth with the edge of his wrist, he muses over the sight before him. He's about to down a second gulp when he hears someone approaching from behind.

"Who's the bird?" Ymir asks him, reaching to take the bottle from his hands. He gives her a look, but she steals a large swig of his drink anyway, probably because she forgot to bring her own, knowing her.

"Eren."

"Of course, he is." She breathes after her second or third gulp, handing the bottle back to its owner. "Why is he making bird noises, though?"

"It's the safe word he chose for when he's in too much pain."

Ymir scoffs. "Idiot."

They both stand and watch as Annie twists his arm further up his back, pulling a sharp hiss and an "Ah-ha-ow!" out of him. It's great, because she's like, half the man's size and yet she has him pinned face-down to the ground, holding him still with nothing but her knee at the small of his back and his arm bent right behind him. With his cheek pressed to the matted floor, Eren's features contort in excruciating pain.

"Hey!" Reiner calls, cupping his hands on either side of his mouth. "Go easy on him, Annie!" The only reply he receives is another cry of misery.

"To think she's still recovering from that boxing injury," Ymir notes, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her shirt sleeve.

Reiner shakes his head in mild astonishment. "He's one of the best fighters here, and he gets beaten into making bird noises by a girl with a broken wrist."

"Who's even smaller than mister dwarf man over there," she points a finger at Connie, who's quick to flip her off. Every curse word known to man has been hissed and spat by Eren, who's practically crying into the mat and wriggling helplessly under the blonde's tiny weight. He manages to slip out of her hold somewhat, but she tightens her grip and makes him pay for it, costing him another cry of pain.

"I'm a good man," he laments with a sob. "I don't deserve this."

Reiner calls out again. "Annie! You'll break his arm!" but what this does is make her raise her head to look at them. With a sigh, Ymir gestures for Reiner to go help the poor man out.

All he has to do is tap the blonde on the shoulder, and she relinquishes her grip on Eren's arm and lifts her knee off his backside. Immediately, he sags onto the floor with a borderline pornographic moan of relief. He's face-down, for real now, his imperceptible whines so muffled and abstruse that even Annie has to fight the faintest of smiles.

"Oh, come on, Jaeger," Reiner teases, nudging him with his shoe. "What happened to 'I bet I can kick your ass in twenty seconds flat'?"

A groan is all he answers with, turning to lay on his back. "Shut up," he spits, cradling his face in his hands. Both Annie and Reiner smirk down at him, and after telling her that he's glad to have her back with them again, Reiner goes his own way, leaving her alone with a panting, sweaty Eren.

She waits patiently for him to catch his breath, re-doing her ponytail and swiping her bangs out of her face. Both hands hoisted on her hips, she peers down at him. And even though she's small in stature, having him there like that, gasping for air and covering his face by her feet, makes her ego inflate, makes her feel like a giant.

"Hopefully, this will teach you never to underestimate me again," she bends forward, offering him her good hand. All he does is glare at her and slap it away.

"You cheated."

"Did not."

"I said cacaw like fifty times!"

"I didn't hear you."

"Ugh."

She watches him throw his arms out to the sides, laying on the mat like a child about to make a snow angel. His chest swells and sinks with his breaths, and she skims her gaze over the sweat stain on his t-shirt, views how it moistens a patch on the fabric and melts from his neckline down to his sternum. With his eyes closed and lips parted, he kinda looks like a little kid—especially with the way his cheeks burn bright pink and sweat sticks his hair to his forehead. She'd never noticed before, but his eyelashes are _really _long. Now that she sees him like this, when he's not talking fifty miles an hour or goofing around, she can gauge his features a lot better.

Annie clears her throat.

"Get up."

"No."

"Eren, it's time to go. They'll close the place on us."

He only sighs. Shakes his head.

"Fine," Annie shrugs, but before she can turn to leave, Eren senses her movements and tells her wait for him. Reluctant, she does as he says.

His lids unveil a striking pair iridescent marbles, and she'd never noticed just how much color there is to his eyes until now. Perhaps it's just because she hasn't seen him in a few weeks due to recovering from an injury, or because she's not used to seeing him from this angle, or something's changed in him, or who knows what. But she catches little snips of him she never noticed before, even though she's known him for over four years now.

"Hold on." He's breathing more evenly now, but he still slaps a hand on his chest with a wheeze as if he were trying to steady his heartbeat. Annie tries not to roll her eyes at him. Drama queen. "Help me up."

So she does, but all he's willing to do right now is sit upright and smile when she complains. They're both dirty, and sweaty, and in desperate need of a shower, but he gestures for her to take a seat beside him, insisting when she says no. Honestly, if it weren't for the fact that she owes him so much, she probably wouldn't put up with half the crap he pulls.

"What?" she drones, taking her place beside him.

"Just thought we should talk for a bit."

"Can't it wait till we're clean?"

"Uh…" he untangles the tie around his hair, and the bistre strands fall free and frame his face before he combs his fingers through them to push them back. "No."

Now that his hair's out of his face, he looks much older, like the Eren she knows. And because he hasn't shaved yet, his stubble makes a faint scratchy sound when he runs a hand down his face, hissing before clutching his forearm.

"How's your arm?"

"Sore," he complains, rubbing his bicep and rolling his shoulder so that it pops. Once it does, he winces, and Annie fights the urge to ask if he's okay. It's not like her to be soft, but sometimes when she's around him, he elicits a degree of kindness from her she's not even sure she actually possesses. She clears her throat, and he shoots her a sideways glance, eyeing the brace around her wrist with an ambiguous expression. "How's your wrist?"

"Getting better."

"How'd you sprain it?"

Annie pulls her legs up to rest her chin on her knees, wrapping her arms around herself. "I told you," her voice is toneless. "I boxed without gloves on and pulled a punch the wrong way."

"Mmm." Eren's gaze is trained on her wrist, and she fears he'll insist on pressing the topic further. But he doesn't. He just shrugs and replies, with equal tonelessness, "Okay."

Annie's never been one for conversation, never really knowing what to say in return for words. Yet, seeing Eren nurse his arm, she briefly entertains the thought of apologizing. But again, she holds herself back. The task seems too vulnerable and personal. So instead, she comes up with something else, something safer.

"You going to the party tonight?"

"Yep," he nods. "You?"

"Don't think so."

"Aw, why not? Come on, Annie, we all miss you."

"Maybe for New Year's. Christmas isn't really my thing."

"Right. Forgot. You're Jewish."

"Atheist."

"Right. Knew that." He runs his fingers through his hair a couple of times to pull it back into a tidier ponytail, but halfway through his efforts the band snaps. He curses loudly, but before he can overreact, she offers him the spare around her good wrist and he thanks her. "You know, Annie, you can be an atheist and still celebrate Christmas."

"You're just saying that because Christmas equals food and presents."

"And parties," he grins, handling her hair tie behind his skull. Annie shakes her head, catching the musky scent of his sweat mixed with his deodorant. As weird as it sounds, the smell is oddly pleasing somehow. Kinda like how a baby's head smells really nice. It's just weirdly comforting in a way, and makes his presence feel relaxing.

"What?" he asks, noticing her expression. "Parties are fun."

"They're full of… people."

Eren gasps, slapping a hand on his cheek. "Oh, no. Not people!"

"Stop."

"Living organisms who breathe and talk just like you, oh no! Annie! Annie, you poor thing!"

She sighs. Never mind. He's still annoying.

"Please come. Please? I don't want to be there without you."

"The party's right next door to your place, Eren. Just go home if it gets boring."

"But everyone's gonna be there! What do I tell them when they ask for you?"

"That I hate them."

He rolls his eyes, a dramatic turn of teal-green spherules that nearly lull to the back of his head. "They already know that."

"Well, then." Annie tucks her bangs behind her ears, but they're too short, so they curtain over her face again anyway. Her sweat's beginning to chill on her skin, which feels kinda gross, but Eren's staring straight ahead in silence for some reason, drumming his fingers on his knee. She's known him long enough to read the expression on his face. He wants to say something.

This is bad.

Knowing him, he'll sputter it out eventually, though, one way or another. So she waits, trailing her gaze over the stray hairs that missed his ponytail, the ones sticking to the nape of his neck with sweat. Surely enough, after a few seconds, he turns to look at her and speaks.

"Actually, there's a huge favor I need to ask of you."

"What?"

"Would you be my girlfriend?"

Annie promptly punches him in the face.

**—o—**

"Clean" is an understatement.

Their apartment is so immaculate, even Jiji slips a couple of times over the polished hardwood floors—but maybe that's just because he's always sprinting to his destinations. Still, Mikasa would be lying if she said she didn't chuckle when he slid face-first into wall because of his frantic racing. He hasn't gotten his head stuck in anything today, though, at least.

Around noon, she goes out for her appointment at a nearby beauty salon. No manicures today, just waxing. "Waxing" is an understatement too. "Ripping your soul out of your body through every aching, bleeding pore" more like. The body parts which endure such torture need not be named. Needless to say, it takes every ounce of grace within Mikasa not to waddle her way out of the salon, not to shout profanities when passing eyes seem to cling to her strange new gait. _There is fire between my legs_, she seethes internally at them._ I'm on fucking fire. _

Once back at home, after a nice hot bath, the pain subsides. With her hair up in a towel, she sits atop the toilet tank, her feet on the toilet seat lid. Leaning over, she paints her toe nails, applying the nail polish one meticulous brush stroke at a time. She can't do any pretty squiggly designs like the girls at the salon she frequents, but painting within the lines is easy enough. It's when she has to let go of the book she's reading in between drying times to paint her fingernails that she really struggles.

The left hand isn't all that bad, but painting the right one is a pain. She's right-handed, so her less predominant hand trembles slightly while she aims all her focus to applying the color as cleanly as she can. She gives so much of her concentration that her tongue pokes out a little by the corner of her mouth.

Once that's done, it's waiting time. As she waits for her nails to dry, she crosses her legs, props an elbow on her thigh, perches her chin on the palm of her hand. The apartment is _so _quiet. She wishes she would've procured turning on the TV or putting on some music or something. There's no noise. Just the quiet sound of Jiji purring in his sleep and the thoughts that rattle in her brain with resounding clamor.

So, to distract herself, she hums.

Deep in her throat, songs her mother taught her ring. She closes her eyes, swinging a foot back and forth gently with her music. When she inhales through her nose to regain her breath, the poignant smell of the nail polish stings her nostrils. She pretends the smell is her mother's instead; pretends that she's breathing through smaller lungs, peering down at tiny toenails, small digits that wiggle as soon as her mom's done applying a soft, rosy paint. _Not too much_, she tells her. If she wiggles her toes too fast, she'll ruin her nail polish.

So she keeps humming.

"Hmm, hmm, hmm…"

_And the pink tip of her tongue poked out from the corner of her mouth, where her lips curled with concentration once it was her turn to paint her mother's toe nails. Toes were always tricky for Mikasa. Trickier than hands. Sometimes, she painted outside the lines and colored Mama's skin. Still, no matter how smudged or clumsy, she never failed to gasp loudly and declare that she'd done a wonderful job. "They look beautiful," she told her with a peck on the nose. "You did great."_

"…Hm-hm-hm… hmm, hm-hmm..."

_Her alabaster neck stretched out long, pride filling her eyes as she gazed down at her daughter and cupped her chin to lift it high. She called her beautiful, like she always did, and smoothed a tendril of damp hair away from her face. The door suddenly burst open with a violent boom. The two towel-wrapped females jumped, exclaiming in surprise. Then Papa shouted, "What are you two doing?!" and Mama hurled the shampoo bottle at him to make him pay for the scare. _

"…Hmm, hmm… hmm, hmm…"

_And they laughed. They laughed so hard when the thing hit him in the head with a solid _plonk_. His eyes grew so wide, Mikasa threw her head back with a wild fit of laughter that nearly sent her tumbling back into the tub. Mama, sitting on the toilet, dodged Papa's apologetic kisses and tried swatting him away, ruining her nail polish in the process. Mikasa doubled over, trying not to wheeze. Her parents would join in on her laughter. Giggling, she'd shield her face from their questioning stares. Papa's face was just too funny. They'd never get the joke._

"…Hmm… hmm…"

Then she stops.

Because now there's something… clawing at her throat. It feels painful, like her esophagus is twisting into knots. Swallowing tightly, she gazes down at her nails, checks if they're dry enough for the day to continue. They're not. They glisten with wetness. A dark, crimson color. A far cry from the pinkness of her childhood and her mother's toes.

Is this what growing up has done to her?

Vibrancy has waned and colors dimmed and shadows turned pale and flickery. Everything's lost its weight, but at the same time gained more of it. Things that meant the world before mean nothing now. Things that never provoked a blink of worry now induce long nights of sleeplessness. Pink has turned to blood red and voiced songs are merely hummed now. Even the ring around her finger—the more she looks at it, seems tainted by her adult-ness and loses more of its sheen. Nine-year-old Mikasa would be very disappointed at all this, at what she's made of herself. Her gaze is corroding. It takes life, not gives it. That's what growing up has done to her. That what the years have made her become.

At what point did it all start? At what age was it that things began to lose their luster and magic dwindled into skepticism? Once upon a time, anything was possible. Now, everything has changed. A twenty-five year old soul bemoans the greatness it once was, a tarnished spirit longs for its old purity.

Maybe that why she clings so much to the past. Back then, things made perfect sense. Right now, even the silence around her is filled with a tinge of madness. She'll drive herself crazy one of these days. She'll think herself into insanity, at the route she's going. No amount of silence is peaceful anymore, and neither is a bustling sea of noise. Company or not, she's constantly being tugged this way and that and no matter what, no matter what she tells herself, no matter how hard she tries to calm it all down, there's always that point in which this inner turmoil rips wide open, and all the ugliness the years have brought her bleed out. She's her own worst enemy. Nothing destroys her the way she destroys herself.

With a small breath, Mikasa reaches over for the book she set aside on the sink, desperate for yet another distraction. It's _Illusions,_ the book Eren let her borrow. And it smells like him. Like his home. The pages are rich with lore and memory.

Slowly, she opens the small book, careful not to get any nail polish on it. As soon as the pages spread open, her gaze is met with some fluorescent-like streaks upon the worn, sepia paper.

Eren's little highlights on random bits of the book.

The sight draws forth a smile from her, however faint, and a warmth redolent of fondness spreads inside her heart. He must've read this book about a thousand times. Through his life, she's known him to own several copies. So the fact that she ended up with one whose pages are bent and worn and highlighted makes her feel, perhaps, special in a way. Like he gave her a personal relic of his being. Funny how books can carry so much of a person.

She started re-reading the book only yesterday, having put it off due to feelings of dread but eventually capitulating out of both curiosity and boredom. Armin used to say that you never read a book the same way twice. Mikasa herself has lost count of how many times she's scoured the novel's pages in search of the new, cultivating from the old something fresh and fulfilling. But its 192 pages can only offer her so much.

She always thought it funny that a book so simple and small could be Armin's very favorite, since the boy was famous for memorizing entire encyclopedias and reciting them by heart. In her whole life, she's never known anyone more fond of books than Armin. Books were his aliment, and he was always starving. To crown _Illusions_ as the sole greatest piece of fiction he'd ever come across, was like a hungry carnivore callings vegetables the greatest sustenance.

Oh, how much he'd talked about that damn book. So much so, that eventually both Eren and Mikasa caved in and gave it a shot. Eren wasn't really all that impressed with it, she remembers. Mikasa had thought it delivering at best. But Armin clung on to its fruits like an emaciated child. It wasn't until years later that they both learned to do the same.

And now it's sort of their thing, this book. The band that ties them all together even if they're far apart.

Flipping through the pages, she scans for traces of Eren's handwriting or stains of use. She doesn't really find any, only highlights and squiggles and the occasional doodle on a random page or two. Still, she admires them, marveling at the timeless marks. How old was he when he'd made them? What was going on in his life? Where was he? What was he doing? What were his thoughts?

She can almost make out the features of his face frowning in concentration, the reading glasses that he always hates to wear fixed over his eyes, his fingers coiling around a highlighting pen to drag it over the words that impact him. Did he have the scar on his palm before or after reading this particular book? She can't tell. The neat, neon lines indicate that either they were drawn during a time when it wasn't there, or when it had healed completely. The pages give hints of long years of good use. It's impossible to guess whether those years amount to six or less or even more.

_To six or less or even more…_

Mikasa's gaze drifts to a blank point in space.

It's Christmas today.

That means that exactly six years ago today, she left him.

She closes her eyes, sighing with the realization. No more. No more thinking. Why can't her mind just lay still and leave her in peace for once? Uneasiness bubbles inside of her. Then panic. Then dread. So much dread. She's always feeling fucking dread. Why must she be alone today? Why _must_ Jean be at work? Why can't she be with Armin and her parents and her loved ones and be safe? Why? Why? Why?

_Stop it. _

Stop it, Mikasa. Stop it right now.

Clenching her jaw, she trains herself into a state of practiced numbness. She's had to do that a lot lately, she notices. Like when she was with Eren and had to run to his bathroom after mere minutes of being with him to calm herself down. She breathes, counts to ten, then holds her breath and starts all over. She does this until she's the master of herself, and her emotions no longer rule her. Only then does she dare to open her eyes again. Even the darkness behind her own eyelids haunts her nowadays.

With a deep inhale, she swallows a large gulp of the book's smell. Earthy, citrusy, musky. Him. Old pages and old friends. The tale of a messiah that refuses to fulfill his role because he believes people have the capability of saving themselves. An atheist's favorite book. Her window to the past and who she wishes she was in the present. All of it contained in the confined spaces of a single body, a single book. And before the clawing in her throat can begin to resurface, there's the rattling of keys and heeled footsteps upon a hardwood floor, a call of her name that makes her heart lurch and her feet hop to the ground with a start.

Jean's home.

**—o—**

God only knows why she agreed to do it, but she did. The frozen water bottle he holds to his cheek stings him nearly as bad as his arm does. Maybe Annie just felt bad for causing him so much pain today (on Christmas, no less) and thus surrendered and said yes to playing his girlfriend—but not until she had him sputtering an explanation to the matted floorwith his arm bent behind him. Again.

Jesus. Women are far too unpredictable. He knows Annie. He knows her well. But even four years of friendship aren't enough to prepare him for one of her fists flying straight to his face. Groaning, he slides the icy plastic of the bottle down his cheek, pulling Annie's gaze to him.

"So about this girlfriend thing," she tells him, twisting her damp hair into a bun. They're both showered now and clean—but Annie didn't want to let him go yet, asking him to meet her outside the females' locker room where the refreshments bar is at. He sits on the counter top, his duffel bag plopped on the floor below his dangling feet, peering at her from the corner of his eyes as she stuffs her hands into the pockets of her hoodie.

"Mhm," he prompts for her to continue. She's quiet for a second, attempting to smooth her fringe out of her face but it finds its way back over her eyes again anyway.

"It's only while we're around her, right?" her tone is tinged with a drop of worry. Maybe she really does feel guilty for punching him and nearly dislocating his arm. Maybe she's just apprehensive about the whole ordeal of pretending to be his lover. The latter is perfectly understandable, he must admit.

"Oh, yeah," Eren nods, wincing when the water bottle digs into his bruise. "It's just while we're around her, that's all."

"What about the others?"

"I'll tell 'em. They'll play along, I know they will."

Annie's quiet again. Staring out into space. Frowning—but that's just her face, really. She's got that sort of neutral expression that gives the impression that she's either awfully bored or terribly pissed at something.

"Do I have to kiss you?" For a second, he thinks she's joking. But the stern look in her eyes indicates she's not.

"No-ho," he laughs, slightly taken aback by the question. "No, Annie. I wouldn't do that to you."

"Hold hands?"

"Nope."

"So nothing lovey-dovey."

"Just stare into my eyes like they're the most beautiful thing you've ever seen and we should be set."

"You're ridiculous," she sighs, shaking her head. "This isn't going to work, you know."

Eren sighs too, pulling the bottle away from his face. The whole right side of his face feels numb now, tears of frigid water trickling down the warmth of his cheek before he dabs it away with his shirt sleeve. "It will," he assures her. "Trust me. I know her. I know how this girl works."

"You really think everyone will help?"

"Yep."

"Even Hitch?"

"Even Hitch."

"I highly doubt that."

He holds a finger in the air, piercing her gaze with his own. He looks awfully chipper for a man who just got punched in the face.

"I have a plan."

"Oh, no." Annie shrugs when he glares at her. "I'm just saying, Eren. Every time you have a plan, things usually don't end well."

"Okay, well, this one's gonna work."

She doesn't really know what to say to him, so she eyes the red mark on his cheek. Guilt is an emotion she tends to try hard not to feel. But she's got to admit, maybe punching him in the face was a little uncalled for. She couldn't help that it's been drilled into her reflexes to react defensively when abrupt advances are made. But this is _Eren_. Eren, her friend Eren. He would never do anything to take advantage of her and she knows it.

Perhaps it's that underlying feeling of faint (very faint, okay) guilt that pushes her to make his presence linger, or perhaps it's the simple loneliness that comes with Christmas day, but she keeps talking; for the sake of keeping him around a bit more., for the sake of figuring out what's going on inside that mind of his.

"Hitch texted me the other day talking about her." It's not a lie. But she didn't have good things to say about the girl either, so perhaps mentioning this wasn't the wisest choice.

But it makes his eyes dart to her face, his attention setting itself like a large weight on her features. What is it about today that makes him look so young all of a sudden? He speaks with the excitement of a child when he asks, "She did?"

"Yeah."

"What did she say?"

Nothing pleasant. "That some random girl showed up at your place and you kicked her out because of that. Oh, and that you're pretending not to have a phone around her for some reason." Plus, she called her scarf girl. And bitch. And twat. (But Annie won't mention that.)

On her end, the air's starting to feel a little unsafe and awkward, like she's meddling with his personal affairs. But Eren sets his gaze downcast with a smirk, breathing out a chuckle. He's weirdly cheery today. Sorta. Definitely a lot more alive than she's used to seeing him, anyway.

"Ye-up."

"Why?" She can't help it. Curiosity seems to get the best of her today.

"To lure her into coming to my apartment," he admits, shrugging. "That way she has an address, not a phone number, and the only way she can find me is by seeking me herself. Anyways, it worked, so…"

"So you're playing her."

"I am not," he doesn't even seem offended by her comment.

"What's she like?"

And there's that kid-like excitement in his eyes again, that vibrancy in his voice that makes him sound ten years younger.

"The girl?"

"Yeah."

"Ohhhhh, man," Eren sets the bottle on the counter beside him, and if she thought he looked younger before, now he comes to life like a fucking firecracker.

Sometimes, Eren doesn't really have filter. Okay, no, that's all the time. But some times are worse than others. He talks and talks and doesn't shut up until you stop him, words spewing out of him the instant they pop into his mind. Usually, this only happens when he's unnaturally passionate about something. But Eren is a passionate man, and when things move him, they move him profoundly. Annie, however austere, can be patient with him at times. So when he blurts out speech worthy of the pope's envy, she listens in with mild reverence and awe.

"She's unlike anything," Eren starts, and the second of silence that follows is as fleeting as the smile that curves his lips. (And since when does he smile like that? Since when do his eyes glow that way? Since when?) "She's like, such an odd mixture of things, Annie. I don't even know. Like, she's quiet and somber but at the same time she gets these bouts of talkative-ness where she doesn't shut up. Then she gets embarrassed afterward and recoils into herself like she regrets giving away so much. Her sense of humor is the weirdest thing in this planet, I swear. She won't laugh at anything unless it's some silly trivial thing like the noise a wet sponge makes when it hits the floor. One solid _splat_ and she'll be peeing her pants and doubling over with tears in her eyes. She spaces out a lot, but at the same time she's got eyes like a hawk and ears like an elephant. You can't fool her, and don't even try to lie to her because she'll see right through you like glass. Sometimes she'll hum to herself and sing under her breath, and if you catch her doing it she gets mortified and turns bright red. That's another thing. She's like, a fierce blusher. She's got the pinkest cheeks you will ever see. When she's not pale as fuck, she's pink as fuck. Also, sometimes she wheezes when she laughs too hard an it's really funny. And she has the softest sneeze. It's so fucking weird. She sneezes like a kitten. And her voice. Man, her voice. It's seriously the calmest thing ever. You will never hear anything more soothing, I swear to god. Even when she's angry, it's still calm. I don't know how she does it. Plus, she has, like, this _air_ to her, you know? Like the presence of a queen or some shit. People snap their fucking necks looking at her when she enters a room—and she never notices! She's sharp as a knife but when it comes to certain things, she's completely clueless! She doesn't notice when people are admiring her, as if she doesn't genuinely believe that they would have any reason to. Plus, she's good at like every single thing she does. Give her a sword and she'll be a damn samurai in seconds. When I was little, I used to have this theory that she had a lot of past lives that stuck with her through this life and that's why she knows so much and is good at everything. She's such an old soul. It's crazy. But then she has the most childish habits at times too. I don't think I'm making any sense right now, but you get what I mean. Also, she doesn't look it, but she could kill a man with her bare hands. It's kinda hard to believe when you see her—I mean, someone that passive should not be able to beat the shit out of someone until they're on the brink of death. BUT SHE CAN DO IT! I've seen it! She has the most delicate-looking hands, but they've broken noses like you wouldn't even imagine. She has the worst jokes—and I mean they're absolutely _terrible_—but her smile is so pretty, it makes up for every punch line missed. And her eyelashes are like a mile long, Annie. When she cries, tears get caught on them and they clump together like spider legs. She's always pulling her hair behind her ears, but somehow it still always manages to get all over her face. Did I mention she has the cutest little nose? That's probably why her sneezes are so tiny. It's so small. And pointy. And she does this thing where she only shrugs one shoulder and—"

"Eren."

Breathless, he looks at her, swallowing a small slip of air to regain his breath. "Yeah?"

Annie's nearly gaping at him. Never in her entire four years of knowing him has she ever heard him talk about a girl like that. She's even a little sorry she asked!

"I mean what is she like_ physically,_" and she prays his answer's shorter this time.

"Oh." He laughs at himself. She's not sure whether the redness growing in his cheeks comes from talking too fast or from embarrassment. "Shit. Right, okay. Um, well, she's tall-ish. Kinda. Sorta. Whatever. And she has really pale skin and really dark black hair. Eyes like the night sky, but still kinda gray. I guess it depends on the day or something, but sometimes they're darker than ink and other times they're shiny like silver. She's got the rosiest lips. She's Asian—well, half Asian, anyway. And, uh…"

Silence descends.

Sometimes, in the middle of his words, Eren just kinda drifts off, like his mind's just recalled something tragic. And then he stares blankly into space. And then the familiar warmth of his features melts away. And then Annie's left wondering, what's wrong with him? What's wrong?

His thoughts drift to when she'd been in his apartment. Mikasa herself._ Mikasa_. He still has a hard time believing it. It's like that entire day had been a conjuration from his mind, a sad reality his desperation fathomed. But she was truly there, and he really did talk to her, and she really did promise to come back. Really. She did.

What's she like physically, Eren?

Well, she is the single most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Everything about her is so beautiful it hurts him. Her voice, her hands, her eyes, her lips, her face, her body. Her heart, her soul, her mind. The thoughts that consume her marvelous brain and thrum in her being. She's quiet and gentle like the water's surface of a lake, but within her there's a depth that twist and churns like a typhoon incessantly. It never stops. It never stops spinning. Physically, she is deceiving. Her calm eyes will make you think she may be apathetic, but she feels everything so raw. Unless you look in deep enough, you will never know it. She's not one to voice herself and lay all out on the table. She's the type of girl you gotta_ find_. A pain in the ass sometimes, yeah. But she's so gorgeous. Gorgeous in every way.

What's she like physically, Eren?

Well, now she has a spacious gap between her thighs. Her hair's so long it touches the center of her back—which is fucking crazy. The under wire of her bra protrudes beneath her shirt when she stretches—as do her ribs. The soft swells of her breasts sway with the breaths that undulate in her chest as they pour out of her lungs. In and out, she breathes. Her existence is so silent sometimes you forget she's even there—and your mind races, searching for her, because she's always just a feeble blow from flying away and never returning. And physically, you know you need her. Her air's addicting. She's got this soft, sweet smell that fills you up like oxygen. She's got these hands that feel like silk on your skin. She's got a gaze that makes you realize that one look can steal a lot more than you thought: your breath, your strength, your character. She's like a rose with thorns. Mesmerizing, endearing, but you'll hurt yourself if you grip her too tight.

What's she like physically, Eren?

Well, her mouth is pert and small and opens slowly when she sighs worriedly before making her way to his bathroom, and her shoulders are stoic and tense and shake when her phone rings and she's in the wrong place to answer her fiancé's call. And those jeans she now wears, that she wore to see him—they're expensive and form fitting. He'd be lying if he said he didn't relish in the way they'd fit her, because even though she's so much thinner now, and he's so perturbed by this, his eyes didflitter down more than once, _way_ more than once, and an internal groan formed at the pit of his being because_ fuck,_ her ass looked so good in them.

"Anyway," he clears his throat, stopping the thoughts before they worsen, "you'll know when you see her, 'kay?"

"Do I even want to know what your relationship with her is?"

"No," he answers wearily, closing his eyes. "You don't."

"I won't ask, then."

Good, he thinks. Because the last thing he needs right now is to think about Mikasa Ackerman—more than what he already does, anyway. But Annie's still standing there, with her hands in her pockets, that neutrally-bored-and-pissed-off look on her face.

"You look like you wanna say something," he says, unscrewing the cap on the water bottle to steal a sip of whatever ice has melted inside. Annie, with her bright blue eyes and flaxen hair and sharp features, meets his gaze and parts her lips to speak.

_Are you okay, Eren? _she wants to ask. _Because sometimes you go quiet and I worry but I don't know how to ask you what you're thinking and I feel like something's wrong. Something's always wrong with you. You just know how to cover it all up, I feel. And I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. _

Maybe if she were someone else, someone braver, she'd be able to voice the words that itch and scratch at the tip of her tongue. But she shoves them back into her mouth, her throat, and instead tells him, "About this whole girlfriend thing…"

After his second sip, Eren nods. "Yes."

"Why do I have to act like your girlfriend, again?"

"Because this girl's just… Okay, this is not gonna make any sense."

"Just tell me."

He sighs, like he's bored of the topic or just doesn't want to keep talking about it. But he's not the type to leave a conversation unfinished, or words unsaid, so he explains, "So she has a fiancé, right? She loves him. She'd never do anything to hurt him. He's the one she goes home to and the one she wants in her life."

"Okay..."

"The thing is, being with me—due to the nature of our odd relationship which I really just don't want to talk about right now—will—and I know this for sure—make her feel like she's being unjust to him. You know, being with a man he doesn't know or wouldn't necessarily approve of."

"Why wouldn't her fiancé approve of you?"

"Again: odd nature of our relationship."

"I'm guessing she's an ex."

"No. Even worse."

"Ex-_wife?_"

He shakes his head, pulling a face. "It's complicated."

"I see. Anyway, it's none of my business."

"Thank you."

She'll let the topic go. She will. But she needs to say this one last thing. Just—

"So, as far as I understand, the reason we need to pretend I'm your girlfriend is because it will give her a sense of security somehow. Like, 'oh, he's with someone so he won't try to get with me'. It makes her feel like she's not doing anything wrong—or anything you're not doing yourself, anyway. It's a no strings attached sort of thing. A psyche trick."

Eren opens his arms like he's about to hug her, but the man's much smarter than that. "You see?" he smiles. "This is why I love you."

"But why me?" She hopes she doesn't sound as surprised, flattered, disturbed and appalled as she actually feels. "Why not ask someone else to play your girlfriend?"

"You were the first person to pop into my head," he replies simply, with a shrug of a shoulder to top it all off. "Plus, I already described you to her. There's not many short blonde girls I know besides, well, you."

"There's Historia," Annie notes, making her way to stand right beside him. She's awfully close to him now, closer than what they're both used to being, leaning against the counter just by the side of his leg. But Eren doesn't seem to notice this. He keeps talking, making faces like he always does.

"Who's with Ymir. Do you want her to kill me?"

"True."

And they fall into silence again. Eren turns his neck to look down at her, and when Annie lifts her gaze to catch his, she sees that the bruise of his cheek is turning a bit purple now. She feels so bad. She could just bury her face in shame and start crying. He's always been so good to her, and she responds to his one request for a favor by punching him in the face. _God._

She thinks he'll say something to her. But he doesn't. He just kinda stares at her for a while, looking at her eyes. Like he's trying to make out patterns in their color, find a familiar face, a reflection, a memory, something. She's about to ask him what he's doing, but he snaps his gaze away, staring blankly into space again, like her eyes reminded him of something haunting. What is it about their color that would do that? Would it be their shape? The fact that they're so cool and blue and lifeless?

And—holy shit. Is Annie actually feeling self-conscious right now?!

"Anyways, I should go," he breathes, and he's hopping to his feet before she can even process what he's just said. He slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder and gives her a tiny grin. "Thanks for your help, and remember: look into my eyes like they're the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. That's it. That's all you gotta do."

It takes her a moment to realize that he's leaving. "Oh." And maybe she still wants him to stay. Maybe. But all probabilities of this are swiftly shot away by her usual sternness.

"Will you do the same to mine?" she'd meant it as a tease. But Eren retaliates in a way that's almost intimidating, leaning in so close to her their noses nearly touch. She stands her ground, however tiny she is, and doesn't even flinch when he tells her, "Ah, but yours already _are _the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"You're a sap."

"You love me."

"So you think."

"Merry Christmas, babe."

"Don't."

It hits her that she's going to pretend to be this man's girlfriend. It hits her that he's turned to walk away. It hits her that she doesn't even know what being a girlfriend _is_ in the first place, let alone why her heart momentarily flutters when gravity pulls her back to the ground once he peels himself away from her and leaves her floating in the air.

Seconds before disappearing out the door, he spares her a glance over his shoulder and says, "I'll see you at the party tonight!"

"You won't!" She's almost embarrassed at her tone of voice. But the doors swing shut in his egress and the latch clicks loudly with the resonating impact his presence always leaves behind, and then silence fills the empty space where he once was.

Annie doesn't think he heard her.

**—o—**

Champagne is such a fascinating drink. The bubbles look like teeny tiny spheres dancing in a sea of crystalline pink, twirling in flawless pirouettes as they race their way up to the top and die with a muted burst of radiance.

Mikasa didn't know champagne could be pink. But Mikasa doesn't drink. Ever. So her fiancé spares her a plethora of teases when she remarks being in awe of the drink. He kisses her nose instead, tells her she's "the cutest thing in the world".

Her eyes linger on the bottle of Moët Rose sitting idly on one of the snack tables, right behind the platters full of cheeses and crackers and chocolate covered strawberries and sandwiches and macaroons and cookies and _god_ those chocolate covered strawberries look really good—but okay, no, she has to control herself, so no, don't look at that. Look at Jean. Admire your fiancé. Yeah. Good girl. Don't stare at the chocolate. Don't do that. Bad.

Her palms sweat. Her hands tremble. Mikasa's nervous tonight, and with good reason. God only knows who half these people are. Most of them bear faces like masks, shifting expressions every few seconds and flapping their mouths like puppets conversing in shrill, comical tones. Her thin fingers curl around an extravagant champagne flute, which she carries around solely to wet her lips and give the impression that she's drinking.

Suddenly, her other hand's stolen by her fiancé and he drags her through the theatrical crowd, looking to introduce her to someone new, someone whose name she certainly won't remember and who certainly won't remember hers.

But parties are all about giving the impression that you're interested. They're about how well you look, not how well you are. And perhaps that's what makes them so damn boring. Two solid minutes into smiling and nodding and linking her arm through Jean's, and she's lost from the conversation, gazing at the fine decorations around her, admiring the Christmas lights that twinkle on the walls and the grand chandelier that hangs from the ceiling and looks straight out of a movie. Blah, blah, blah, people keep on spewing. Blah, the stock market. Blah, someone's nose job. Blah, they cheated on their spouse. Blah, and she's not sure what they're talking about anymore.

She brought the book Eren let her borrow in case of boredom—or maybe as sort of safety blanket really, because it's not like she can actually sit alone in a corner and choose to read it by herself in here. God knows people will stare and whisper more than what they already do, and today she doesn't have the patience, or the strength, to bear through any more of that.

Mikasa fixes a tendril of hair behind her ear, but it slips over her face again anyway, so she lets the imperfection be; a carefree rebel in all her conscientiousness.

Her hair's pulled back in a sleek ponytail, the ends marceled to a large curl, hanging amid the center of her upper back—which is exposed, due to the low plunge of her dress's backside.

Her dress tonight is unlike anything she's ever worn out in public. The coal-colored fabric clings to her shape, not too tight so that it looks painted but still snug enough to fit like a glove. The neckline's tailored like a choker; the center front part narrow enough to show some collarbone but still wide enough to conceal most of her chest. The sleeves are not only non-existent, but they're practically greedy too. Some chunks of fabric seem to be missing on either side of the dress's bust level, eaten away enough so that some ribs and a slither of side boob break out like a plague. The back of the dress dips with a minx-like tease and ends just above her lower back, covering the small dimples she has there but still shaping her ass in its entire (and not very impressive) form. The hem nearly touches the backs of her knees, but slits open at the front to reveal a little more of her legs, resembling the very push-and-pull play she's always battling with herself. The dress isn't totally risque but neither is it utterly conservative. It hides enough to leave something to the imagination but reveals ample to drive a man mad. It's no wonder why Jean suggested that she wear it. Plus, it goes well with the diamond earrings he got her today as a gift, and the silver, studded bracelet around her wrist (also a gift), and the ankle-strap Gucci stilettos with the clear vamp and chrome heel she's wearing and silently praying don't break her ankles because shit, they're tall (a gift too, by the way).

The air smells like fancy tuxes and Chanel No. 5. Men's watches reflect light like Christmas tree ornaments and women's lip-glossed smiles glisten like lacquered chinas set on large dining tables full of homemade food. Laughter rings like soulful music and the boasts of wealthy men inflate the jolly holiday spirit with thunderous laughter, their meek wives tagging along like obedient tails and showing off the gifts proudly bestowed upon them by their husbands. So much life around her and yet Mikasa could not feel more alone.

It's the crowded places that always feel the loneliest.

Outside the tall windows, city lights blur and sing like a chorus of small children. Some flicker, some burn, all of them like stars undisturbed and unclouded by falling or accumulated snow. Snowless Christmases are the worst. Really. But there is something hopeful about the way those little lights shine, how they're tiny and distant and diaphanous but shine brilliantly and with purpose, granting her, in this lonely night, a sense of guardianship somehow. If she wanted to, she could count them all. One, two, three. Green, blue, golden. But there are thousands of them, it seems. And soon they blur into little specks and lose their magic, dispersing, fading, perishing under her gaze.

Jean notices her spacing out. A hard kiss on the cheek brings her back to him.

"You okay?" he asks her, his coppery eyes melting into her ebony-silver ones. She nods, opening her mouth to say something. But what would she say? Nothing important. So she clamps it shut and offers him a soft smile, closes her eyes to his touch when he smooths that one rebellious lock of hair away from her face, successfully securing it behind her ear this time.

For a second, she thinks he'll hold her face and tell her something. Opening her eyes to meet his gaze, she thinks she sees the lights' colors reflected in him—green, blue, gold. But then she realizes that she's searching for things that aren't there, that he can't give her. Jean pulls his hand away from her and downs a swig of his own champagne, resuming the conversion with the people around them as she stares at the way his mouth moves and forms words she isn't hearing, pulling chuckles out of men she feels are no longer there. After a few seconds, he reaches for her hand, interlocks their fingers and kisses the engagement ring before shooting her a questioning look, which she meets with a reassuring curve of the lips, and he follows with another sip of his alcoholic beverage. Moments later, her eyes are on those strange little lights again, and they look so close yet so out of reach, optical illusions that are merely painted on a screen.

Green.

Blue.

Gold.

They shimmer.

Pine.

Lemon.

Wood.

She inhales.

_Welcome home, Mikasa. _Welcome home.

Earthy, citrusy, musky. Channel No. 5 and lacquered grins. Hot chocolate with whipped cream and Creed Royal cologne mixed with Old Spice. Sepia book pages and roasting fires fused with pink champagne and the expensive smell of brand new stilettos. Home and home. Familiar and familiar. Old and new. Dizzying and overwhelming and before she knows it, Mikasa's squeezing Jean's hand to gain his attention.

"I'm gonna go for a walk," she tells him, leaning in so she can speak under her breath. Jean furrows his brows, blinking at her.

"A walk? But baby, it's cold outside."

She smiles at the uncanny resemblance to the 1950's Frank Loesser song. "I'll be fine," she assures him, and after scrutinizing her for a moment, her fiancé rolls his tongue in his cheek and nods.

"Alright. Be safe. Call me if anything."

"I will."

"And take my coat." He taps the bottom of her chin with a curled finger. "It's warmer than yours."

Quickly, Mikasa nods. "Okay." And turns to leave him.

As she goes, questions begin to arise. Excitement starts to flourish. Her new found autonomy inquires: Where will she go? What will she do? What will she make of this snowless Christmas?

But her fiancé's clutching her hand before she can take one full step away from him. She thinks he'll stop her. She thinks he'll tell her to stay with him instead.

But no.

"Hey," he whispers, bringing a hand up to actually hold her face this time, to actually reflect the glow of all those little lights when he coruscates, "I love you."

Relaxing into his touch, Mikasa closes her eyes one final time.

_I will be a good fiancée._

_I will be a good wife._

_I will be a good mother._

_I will be happy._

"I love you too, Jean."

And she means it. She means it with all her heart.

**—o—**

Eren hates taking out the trash.

And to make matters worse, the bag he carries out to the front of his building is not only filled with shit (not literally), but also with one some random stranger's puke (yes, literally puke). Why he let the girls coax him into carrying it out is beyond him—but part of him understands that it's because he's the only sober one here tonight, the only one not vomiting or blubbering or flirting with girls whose faces he'll regret waking up next to tomorrow. It's nearly midnight, and there's not an ounce of alcohol in him yet. Yet.

Fleetingly, he processes that there's no snow outside tonight. That sucks. Not because he likes snow but because Christmases that are destitute of it tend to recall events in his life that aren't very pleasant.

Even more fleetingly, he thinks of the girl. You know which one. The one with the rosy lips and dark black hair and tiny nose and shapely ass. Chuckling to himself, he throws the trash bag atop a pile of more trash bags for the garbage people to pick up in the morning. Haha. Shapely ass. Ha! God, he's a twelve-year-old.

His springy mind, however, stalls when he thinks of what day it is today. Today marks exactly six years since the night Mikasa left him. Not that he's counting. But he is.

He wipes his hands on his jeans, as if that alone is enough to clean off the grimy feeling of carrying someone else's garbage and puke. He can hear music coming from Hitch's apartment, accompanied by the laughter and chatter of all his friends. Someone's screaming at the top of their lungs about chugging an entire vodka bottle in one go. It's probably Ymir. He can't tell. Everyone's talking over one another and shouting dares at whoever's offering to down an entire bottle of Grey Goose. Maybe he should go back up and tell them to quiet down before the cops come with a noise complaint. Or maybe not. Maybe he'll just grab a smoke. It's cold out and he didn't bring his coat but he can bear through it. Right? Yeah, he can. What the hell. Why not? Nobody's missing him. The lighter's in his back pocket and the cigs are—

Wait.

A shape takes form in the corner of his vision.

Eren whips his head to look. His heart catapults up to his throat.

He's imagining it. He's sure of it. It can't be. It's too soon.

But he knows that figure. He knows it too damn well.

He knows that hair color and that body and that click of heels on cement. And so many people in the world have light skin, and dark eyes, and black hair, and long legs, but he's so certain of what he's seeing—maybe not with his eyes, but who can explain the vibrant flutter in his being? The swarm of butterflies that tug around his gut? The sudden light that nearly blinds him and the gasp that pries his lips apart? It's a sight he recognizes with his soul. It's her.

It's _her_.

The name resurrects on his tongue like an atheist's hopeful prayer, a divine declaration that quenches the parched, cracked earth of his heart. Uttering it feels like the sun on his skin after years of endless winter. And that's how he knows for sure that it's her he's looking at. Because who else? Who else ever makes him feel this way? There's only one name, one beacon, one lighthouse that points him straight home:

"Mikasa?"

* * *

**A/N:** Now, to those calling Mikasa selfish in the reviews: This story's set in an **ALTERNATE UNIVERSE** and thus everyone's slightly different according to what they've gone through in their lives. Mikasa's far from perfect here. She has flaws and some growing up to do, but she isn't selfish. In fact, I find it a little hurtful that she's being called selfish for leaving Eren when nobody even knows why she did it, and no one calls Eren selfish for brooding or wanting her for himself. It's just not fair to her. So please be gentle. Thanks :)

Anyways, thank you to all that read, promo, reblog and leave me kind messages. You are the reason chapters keep coming out of this fic. Much love, and until next time!


	8. Every Petal on My Flower Crown

**A/N: **So, remember way back in chapter one when I said that this fic would have actual chapters instead of just "parts" like all my other multi-chap fics? So, I've figured out the way this entire fic is set out. It has three parts: Part I, II, and III. Part I is chapters 1-5, and Part II starts at chapter 6 with the first past chapter and will end with the final past chapter that's revealed. So, think of Part I as the prologue, Part II as the story's body, and Part III as the end.

Now that we're in Part II, chapters will cycle back and forth between past and present, because past chapters are where we get to see how these two fell in love and what happened to split them up—and also, Armin is present mainly in these past chapters, and because he's an important character in the story, I think it's important we give him as much "screen time" as possible. Part II will be the longest part, so we've still got lots ahead!

**_O__H AND BEFORE I FORGET! _**My favorite artist drew fanart of last chapter! You can find it on her tumblr (lolakasa) or got to mine and see it there. She drew Mikasa so beautiful. I cried.

**W****arnings: **Racism and bullying.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

_.: Every Petal in My Flower Crown Was a Smile on My Lips :._

.: Chapter VIII :.

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Kids at school weren't very nice at all.

During the first week of fourth grade, Mikasa had officially been dubbed "Chicken Curry" by her classmates. The reason? It was beyond her. Certainly, there was nothing about her that resembled the dish. But a lot of things were beyond Mikasa's comprehension, unfortunately.

Lots of names were hissed at her (_new girl, chink, __C__hinkerbell, __rice ball, __s__lant __e__yes, gook,__ Jap, ching-chang_, just to name a few) and she knew what none of them meant. The oddest name thus far—even weirder than Chicken Curry—was _gink_, a cruel mixture between "gook" and "chink" that made her cringe whenever any of the kids pronounced it. She didn't need to understand what any of the words meant. The leers on the young faces that mocked her were enough to show that none held good meanings at all.

Teasing wasn't the only thing the kids did to her, though.

Through the span of a few short days, their name-calling increased to acts of blatant cruelty. A group of girls, led by a fourth grader named Sarah, were particularly keen on making Mikasa's life a living hell. They began to deny her access to the bathrooms, standing in a straight line like a wall to block her way.

"Excuse me," Mikasa had said when she first encountered them. "I would like to get through."

The girls, especially Sarah, all snorted loudly and laughed in her face. Mikasa's heart shot up to her throat, for she'd lived in the woods long enough to understand when things meant danger. It was like a sixth sense that she'd acquired from going hunting with Papa. When an animal is cornered, their fear fuels a primal need to fight. Mikasa though, had a gentler soul. Patiently, she waited, swallowing her fear with one big gulp. She stared at the girls right in the eyes, to show that they didn't own her.

"She talks funny," one of them said, and those were the only words that were offered by any of them. Besides that, they chose to ignore her, and that's how it went. They just stood there, refusing her access to the restrooms and pretending she wasn't there until she gave up went away. At first, Mikasa used to stand and wait patiently for them to budge. They never did. Once, she even tried to force her way through them. But they sneered and lunged forth threateningly, looming over her small frame like dark shadows so that the unvoiced message was very clear: _You are not getting through us._

Their mission was to make her life impossible, simply for the pleasure of it all. And thus, blocking her way to the bathroom was how their quest began. They did it so that she was forced to humiliate herself and use the boys' restroom or find the other bathrooms on the school's opposite wing, but the latter would result in her being late to class, which was punishable, so Mikasa simply chose to hold it in until school hours were done. She was oddly resilient like that, the girl. Even at such a young age, she wore a stoic expression when suffering through pain, not once giving away her true feelings, concealing them with benevolence and patience and without a single complaint.

Her school locker was next.

They would manage to lock it on the inside somehow, so that her books were all kept inside and Mikasa would, once again, face the danger of being late to her classes. Getting teachers and janitors to help her unlock the thing usually ensued a mild commotion and a lot of explaining on her part, a lot of questioning from adults, a lot of doubt in the principal's eyes. And so she took the memo and compromised. She began to carry all of her books to her classes. Every single one. They were very heavy, but Mikasa was strong.

Then it was her lunch.

It began to disappear mysteriously out of nowhere. With nothing to eat during the day, Mikasa endured torturous hours of hunger. She began to eat large breakfasts at home, avoiding Mama's gaze when she happily handed her a freshly prepped lunchbox, and she never told a single soul that the contents were to merely vanish during the day and into another child's stomach.

She'd scarf down copious amounts of toast and pancakes and cereal and whatever Mama would fix that morning. She even questioned her once, and Mikasa explained that it was probably because of ballet, because she was growing, because her appetite was increasing that she needed to eat so much. She never mentioned her true trifles. Mama wouldn't be pleased at all. So she lied. Mikasa lied to her and Papa. And sadly, these large breakfasts didn't hold out for very long.

During the last few periods of school, Mikasa had a tiger growing in her belly. It roared and grumbled, complaining irritably of its hunger. The longer she went without eating, the louder it roared. The louder it roared, the more the children laughed at her. The more they laughed, the better Mikasa became at ignoring them.

And recess? Oh, it was a nightmare.

Because Armin was still feeling ill, he was absent from school for nearly three whole weeks. During that time, Mikasa didn't have anyone to sit with at lunch or to play with during recess, having made no friends besides him. And it was during recess that kids were the cruelest. After all, they had all that free time.

Her path to the bathroom was blocked regularly, but one time during recess, she managed to sneak in when nobody was around, only to find _**G**__**OOK **_scribbled on the bathroom mirrors with pink lipstick. It had to be done by Sarah. No other kids ever carried makeup around but her.

And you know what Mikasa did? She wiped the offense away. Dampening some toilet paper, she dragged it over the letters until all that was left was a pink, blurry mess. Through the smudged paint and wet clumps of paper, she'd caught her reflection in the mirror and gawked.

_Gook,_ her own face seemed to whisper back to her. _Gook._

Her small eyes closed, her small chest expanding. No, she told herself. She was so much more. She was more than their words. Mama always told her she was important. Papa always said it too. And they were right. Mikasa was worth much more than what all those mean kids were saying.

But how does a nine-year-old genuinely believe that?

With a full bladder and no desire to relieve it anymore, Mikasa left.

She was alienated her from the rest of the group on a daily basis. She heard kids whispering about her everywhere she went, huddled close together and howling like evil little hyenas. _Slant __e__yes. Chink. Chicken Curry._ _Chinkerberll,_ like Tinkerbell but a chink. Even the walls began to seethe these names out to her. _You are different. You're not their race. Nobody in this school likes you because of that._

How could such small children harbor so much hate? It was baffling.

Unfortunately, Sarah's little crowd reigned over everything, even the small park behind the school so that when Mikasa tried to claim a swing for herself, or use the slides or monkey bars, she was promptly pushed away and shooed off like a pesky little flea. That's all she was to them, a flea. Ugly. Tiny. Squashable. And they all treated her as such.

The teachers never noticed their abuse, or perhaps they merely chose to ignore it. Mikasa regularly wondered: do they not see what all of them do to her? Do they not care that she's pushed off by the others for no reason at all? Is there no one here to help her?

And what about God? Why did Kami allow all of this to happen? Wasn't school supposed to be, as Papa had once put it, "fun"?

For the first few days of fourth grade, Mikasa sat on a bench all by herself and counted down the hours, the minutes, the _seconds_ until school was over and it was time to go back home. Whenever she found herself in this position, she day dreamed, she sung lullabies under her breath, she consoled herself with nature's music, listened to the trees hiss around her and got lost in their wise, ancient songs. She thought of home, her _real _home, and ached for it. What she wouldn't have done to be back in the woods again…

Luckily, though, her school allowed children to be in the library during recess, so she began to skip the period altogether, spending her time there with nothing but her own company and her books. That was enough. That was more than enough. Mikasa didn't really mind loneliness. It had been her constant companion her entire life.

What she couldn't deal with was isolation. When children threw objects at her or tried to trip her in the halls or called her chicken curry in front of a chortling crowd, she wasn't really sure what to do with herself. She didn't know how to act around people to begin with, let alone mean people. She just kind of… balled her hands a bore through it. Just like that. Completely on her own.

A naturally reserved child, Mikasa told no one of the bullying she faced every single day. The young child endured it all in silence, developing coping mechanisms to help her through the torture: whenever she really needed to go to the bathroom and the other girls wouldn't let her, she'd play a game of perseverance, like that game where one sees how long they can last holding their breath. How long could she last holding in her necessities before she felt that she would pop? One day, it was two hours. Another, it was four. Once, she came so close to peeing herself that she had to run to the nurse's office and lie about having to puke, so that she was allowed to use their private restroom and relieve herself there.

When her arms became sore from carrying all her books, she pretended that she was carrying Papa's freshly cut firewood instead. If she persevered long enough, soon she would make it to their cabin home and help Mama prepare the fire for her to cook and make herself warm. Home was replaced by her classes, and firewood was actually the bulk of many books, but Mikasa was always very good at pretending. And so she did.

Whenever the kids called her names, she would close her eyes and count to ten (sometimes twenty) until their contempt didn't affect her anymore. It was like dealing with needle stings. Eventually, the hurt would pass, the names would melt into the back of her mind, and she could focus on more important things instead. Like her books, and day dreaming. Mikasa_ loved _day dreaming.

The library became her sanctuary in a way. It was no wonder why Armin loved books so much. They granted escape. Lost in the limitless spaces of their pages, Mikasa Ackerman was safe. Nobody could hurt her there. Nobody could bother her.

"Don't you wanna play with the kids outside?" the librarian had asked her one day when she was drawing.

"Nope," Mikasa had replied nonchalantly, dragging a crayon meticulously across the page. She hadn't mentioned that she didn't feel like having dirt thrown at her that day, or that she'd had no lunch to eat, or that earlier that morning Sarah had mouthed "bitch" to her while passing her down the hall (the b-word was a big no no in her household. Mama always pinched Papa's arm whenever he said it out loud), and Mikasa didn't even know what that word meant! But she did know that it was bad, and that Sarah hadn't been whispering it to her with good intentions—especially since the kids beside her all started to laugh, like they'd heard the silent words with their evil psychic senses.

The authorities rewarded her general obedience in school by allowing her to spend her days in the library all by herself, holding in her pee, starving. All of this in utter silence, all of this beyond their notice, yet right under their noses. None of them saw her suffering. None of them helped her. She was completely on her own.

In the library, there was a large window overlooking the playground outside. This was her window to the outside world, her link to those that weren't alienated or abandoned. Her eyes would survey the distant figures whenever she grew bored of her books, and many times, they caught glimpses of the boy who'd been kind to her, his name, Eren Jaeger, reverberating furiously in her heart. And in her soul she'd feel the startling need to reach out to him, bring herself to him in some way. But he was always busy, that boy. If he wasn't screaming at the tops of his lungs like a total crazy while playing tag or something of the like, he was always running around kicking a soccer ball, or getting lost somewhere with his friends. He was constantly surrounded by people. Mikasa blamed it on his dimple. That dimple. It drew people to him like UV light does to dumb flies.

He never spoke to her after the first day of school, when he'd stood in front of the entire class and shown her kindness. Eren never even glanced her way after that. His mind was far too busy, and Mikasa was too invisible—even to his bright, sharp eyes.

The thought depressed her, but it was true. In that school, she was nothing. He probably just did what he did that day on a whim, because he felt like it, he'd had an itch. Or maybe he had done it because Armin told him to. Or because he wanted to feel better about himself. Or he'd been dared. All of these were possible. For all she knew, he may as well have been mocking her too.

But then, one day, he surprised her.

Out of nowhere, Eren suddenly appeared in the library, claiming to have to return the books his absent friend Armin had burrowed. The familiar name made her head shoot up from her coloring book. The familiar face she saw made her heart forget a beat or two.

Eren didn't even acknowledge her, but this didn't stop her from questioning: _Armin? His books? Return them?_ But why would he send Eren to do it and not her? Armin knew she spent her days at the library. She'd told him this while dropping off his homework one day after school. So why did he send _Eren_?

As a nine-year-old, Mikasa had a lot of thoughts. They clouded her judgment sometimes.

This was one of those times.

To avoid Eren, she arose from her seat and ambled along the library in search for a new book to read. It was all just for show, really. To get away from him, to run from the feeling of fondness she felt blooming for him in her heart.

She walked in circles, hiding behind the large bookshelves until she was sure that the boy was gone. Eren had the sort of presence you felt in the air around you, so she didn't even need to check to see if he had left. It felt easier to breathe all of a sudden, thus indicating his egress. Mikasa scurried back to her seat, returning to her coloring book and her crayons.

That was when she saw it.

A paper bag sat curiously by her books. It felt almost like an illusion, conjured up from thin air. Tentatively, she approached it, and when she brought herself to peer inside it, tears welled up in her eyes.

Mikasa cried.

There was food inside.

The paper bag rustled as she snuck in a hand to rummage through its contents. There was a sandwich in a small zip-lock bag, an apple, a pouch of Capri Sun juice, and a note. Slowly, the small girl plucked out the crumpled letter and smoothed it out. Through the tears and the bewilderment, she read it:

_**For Mikasa **__**Ackerman** __**.**_

_**I'm sorry that peapol**__** in our school**__** suck. You can have**__**my lunch. I hope **__**your not alergic**__** to peanut**__** butter becose**__** if** __**you are then that sucks. I'm sorry**__**. **__**Don't die please**__**. I don't want to be responseble for your death**__**.**_

_**P**__**S. I asked my dad for lunch money**__**. It's okay.**_

_**P**__**PS. I hope your not alergic to grape jelly either.**_

_**PPPS. **__**Or bread.**_

Beads of salt water breached the slit of her eyes and rolled densely down her cheeks, leaving trails behind that dampened her skin a shade darker. Whether she wept from happiness or sadness, Mikasa did not know. She had seen the handwriting only once before, scrawled wildly on a chalkboard in front of a rowdy crowd of children, drawn beautifully and disastrously beside the shy, neat letters of her own name.

It was Eren's.

**—****o—**

That afternoon, there was no tiger in her belly.

Mikasa hadn't eaten the contents of the bag immediately, instead just stood there crying and hiccuping for a moment before wiping her tears away. Sniffling, she sat back down, and stared at the bag, contemplating. Ten whole minutes passed before she brought herself to bite into the apple. It was crisp and juicy. Delicious. She ate all of it except the core.

And then she bit into the sandwich. She could tell that Eren made it himself, because something about the way the peanut butter and jelly were apportioned seemed clumsy and haphazardous. There was too much peanut butter and not enough jelly. An adult would have known to distribute both spreads evenly. Still, it was yummy. Perhaps it was all due to the hunger, but that uneven, clumsy sandwich was the best thing she'd eaten in days.

Once the juice pouch was sucked dry, she disposed of the bag, but kept Eren's little letter. She must've stared at the thing for the remainder of recess, until the bell rang and it was time to go back to class.

_Apples or Pears?_

That was the question she was met with in art class.

Mikasa had been sitting in her seat, working on her assigned drawing, when she felt a gentle nudge on her elbow and saw a folded note slipping into her peripheral through a gap between her torso and her arm.

Confused, she took the note and turned around to face the person who had given it to her. She didn't know the kid. Suspiciously, she looked around him. Was this some sort of joke? Had somebody put him up to this? The rest of the children were working together in groups, so she was the only one sitting by herself, and it was just the kid and her when his eyes spoke for him and he nudged his head to the side to direct her gaze in that direction.

For an instant, Eren's eyes met hers.

But then he promptly pulled his gaze away. He was working in a very large group, talking loudly with his friends and laughing so that she was left frowning for a moment, wondering if she'd imagined the look they both had shared.

"It's from him," the kid whispered to her, leaning in so close she could smell his breath. Mikasa furrowed her brows in an odd mixture of elation and confusion.

Eren sent her that note?

Eren sent _somebody _to give her that note for him?

_Really?_

It was just… weird. Nobody had spoken to her since she'd first come to the school, save for those who taunted her and now this odd child. For a moment, she marveled at his face, at how close he was to her, and debated whether his sudden appearance was just another one of the children's cruel tricks.

There was no way that letter could be from Eren. But then again… he had given her his lunch that day. He had been kind. And he hadn't done it directly, no. He'd done it when she wasn't looking.

Eren's back was to her. He was laughing at something one of the kids in his group said.

"Eren sent me this?" she asked the mysterious child. He nodded and prompted for her to open the note.

Her eyes shot to Mrs. Ral. She was busy doing paper work, her attention fixed on her grown-up, teacher stuff. A prick of worry bloomed in Mikasa's heart. If she were to open the note and find something atrocious, the teacher would not be able to see the expression on her face. What if it was so bad that it shocked her, or made her cry? Isn't that what all of the kids wanted? Her tears? Her demise? For them to conquer her?

Maybe they all knew how she felt for Eren.

But… how _did _she feel for Eren?

Mikasa opened the damn note, finally, deciding to find out once and for all what was inside it.

_**Apples or Pears?**_

What.

It was more of a statement than a question.

She blinked and turned to frown at the child behind her. "What's this?" she whispered. "I don't understand."

"He wants to know," the kid whispered back, "whether you like apples or pears more."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. But I'm not supposed to return without an answer. So answer him."

Mikasa squinted her eyes, piecing it all together. Eren was asking her about the lunch. So it really _was_ a note from him! He really _did_ send it to her! This was her chance to write him back and thank him and tell him everything like how yummy the sandwich was and how apples aren't really her thing but the one he gave her today was unnaturally delicious!

Turning back around, she ripped a blank sheet of paper off her notebook and wrote. The kid, whose name she did not know, waited quietly behind her. Once she finished scribbling, she folded the paper a couple of times and handed it to him. "Make sure he gets this."

The boy gave her a nod. "Okay."

And then, just like that, he stood up and left her.

Mikasa returned to her drawing, never once looking up for fear that the eyes she'd meet would not be kind. After all, nobody else in the class was very nice to her. So she drew, her dark eyes glued to her work before her, unaware of the teal-green ones that beamed as soon as they read the letter she had sent.

She didn't see the way Eren stared at her, how he shook his head and pocketed her note, the faintest of smiles spread over his features. He had that sort of smile that you _felt _too, that reached out of him and touched you. So her back prickled under his gaze, her skin tingled where his eyes scrutinized her.

_Apples or Pears?_ he had asked her. She heard him laugh—that fruity laugh of his—at her reply:

_Chocolate, please._

**—****o—**

The floodgates had opened.

Sighing in bliss, Mikasa closed her eyes and relieved herself in the grubby McDonald's bathroom her mother and her frequented right before ballet lessons began. It was near the studio, about a single block away, and Mama had made a habit of preparing Mikasa for her lessons in the bathroom before buying her a snack.

The tiny hiss/liquid dribble of the child urinating were the only noises occupying the bathroom as her mother waited quietly with her arms crossed over her chest, a hairbrush in one hand, hair spray in the other, patience and curiosity both mingling in her gaze. She fixed her daughter in a rather ambiguous expression, tapping her fingers on her forearm in deep thought.

Mikasa peed for a solid minute.

Mama furrowed her brows.

"Do you not use the bathrooms in school?" she queried, her accent dripping thickly through some of her words. Mikasa occupied herself with rolling toilet paper around her small hand, deliberately avoiding the look Mama was giving her.

"They're dirty," she murmured the best excuse she could think of—which wasn't all that great. Mama's frown grew deeper, but Mikasa averted her eyes and focused on finishing up instead. The toilet flushed, as did the rest of the conversation, as did her confidence under Mama's hefty gaze.

The tiles on the walls were yellow and stained with grime, and she stared at the perturbing, unhygienic sight whilst Mama pulled her hair back into a neat little bun. Once she was in her tights, leotard, and slippers, and her face had been splashed (read: attacked) with water to, as Mama claimed, "freshen up", they both shared a large order of chicken nuggets with sweet n' sour sauce and ate in relative peace. When Mama had asked how her day in school went, Mikasa had taken a moment to really weigh the question.

"It went well."

"Did it really?"

"Mhm," and then she shoved the remainder of a half-eaten nugget into her mouth to avoid further conversation.

Mama stared at her with her graceful, slanted eyes; her eyelashes the same exaggerated length as Mikasa's, but only shooting straight down instead upwards so that the only time anyone really got to see their impressive length was when she blinked. Mama was full of these hidden beauties, relics that could only be found with close attention and time. For example: at a distance, any person with functioning eyes could see that Mikasa's mother was tremendously beautiful. But it was up close, when the sheen of her hair shone brightest and the pallor of her cheeks glowed and her laugh lines indented severely with the faintest of smiles, that one could truly see that the woman was _gorgeous_. And although small in stature and quiet in air, Mama possessed the fierce strength of a mountain. It was no wonder why Papa always called her the most beautiful woman in the world. Mikasa had been living under her wing for nine years, and still her radiance bewildered her. Her own mother!

_Gook,_ a voice crooned from somewhere in her mind. _Your mother's a gook._

_Gook._

_**GOOK.**_

"Are you sure, honey?" Mama said suddenly, pulling her from her thoughts. Mikasa shoved another nugget into her mouth, shifting in her seat. Her feet swung back and forth in the air, legs too short to reach the ground below them.

"Yes, Ma. Today was good."

She was never a very good liar.

Warily, Mikasa swallowed her food, and tried not to think of the fact that she'd just been untruthful to Mama, for she always felt the inevitable fear that she could read her thoughts. (Adults could already see the future, chances were they could read minds too.)

Then, she thought of how the kids at school sometimes treated her. She thought of how Sarah and her crew blocked her path to the bathroom and laughed in her face. She thought of how she'd gone to her assigned cubby to retrieve her lunchbox, already knowing that the contents were gone. She thought of her locker, which stood vacant somewhere in her school, locked from the inside. She thought of how her arms felt sore, how she'd had to find a secret spot in the library to hide all her books to be able to retrieve them first thing tomorrow morning.

But then she thought of Eren.

And she thought of his voice, how the words _f__or Mikasa __Ackerman _would sound like when released from his lips. How his laughter would puncture holes into the air when she explained to him that one can't be deliberately allergic to grape jelly, or bread, and then those holes would fill with the smile that would claim his face, and spread to hers, and indent that tiny, impossible dimple on the corner of his mouth. The more she thought about it, the more he reminded her of a prince. He just had that sort of regal presence that made everything he is reverberate on the hearts he'd touched with little to no effort. She thought of what Armin would say if he knew she was thinking of Eren this way. He'd probably laugh.

Mikasa cleared her throat.

She was chewing on her fifth or sixth nugget when she peeked up at Mama, who was watching her with tenderness in her eyes. "What?" she asked, still chewing.

"Nothing," her mother smiled warmly. "I love you."

"I know."

"You nervous for ballet?"

"A little."

"You'll do great. I know it."

_Mama, what's a gook?_ she nearly asked her, but something in her heart told her not to. Keep it a secret, it advised. Don't ask her anything of the sort, for she certainly would not like it.

Mikasa cleared her throat again.

She itched with the need to recount the events of her day. She wanted badly to tell her mother of how she'd been saved, how a boy had made her smile when she'd been feeling lonely. How, incredibly, she's returned to her seat in the library to find _lunch, _and a written note from him. But her heart, again, told her to keep that a secret, for then she would have to explain how her lunch had been stolen, meet the silent fury that would burn in her black eyes. No, Mikasa decided. Better not to say anything at all.

She ate the rest of her meal in silence, until her belly was so bloated she felt that she could barf. Mama chided her gently for over-eating, and Mikasa didn't mention that the poor peanut butter and jelly sandwich she'd had for lunch had spiked her appetite more than what she'd anticipated.

Once in the car, however, the words accidentally slipped out.

"Mama, what's a gook?"

It was as if somebody had slapped her upside the head. Her mother raised her head and peered at her through the rear view mirror. With dire seriousness, she spoke.

"Where did you hear that word?" There were creases around her lips from how tightly she was pursing them.

"Someone said it in school."

"Was it to you?"

"No."

"Mikasa," it was like a boulder crashing onto cement. Her name brought her eyes up to look at her. Mama, as predicted, wasn't pleased by the question at all.

_Poop_, Mikasa thought, biting her tongue. _I knew I shouldn't have said it._

"Who called you that, Mikasa?"

"Nobody, Mama."

"Mikasa…"

"I was saved." Just as suddenly as the words had shot out of her mouth, her mother balked, caught off guard by her answer.

"What did you just say?"

"A prince. He saved me."

"A prince?" Mama frowned. She seemed confused, offended even. Like Mikasa had just talked back to her in an attempt to quarrel—something that she never did, and that certainly wasn't allowed in her household. She knew better than that.

"Mhm," she breathed, looking out the window. She could feel her mother's gaze on her, feel her confusion. But Mama was a very patient person. She swallowed, staring out at nothing for a moment as if collecting her thoughts. Then she cleared her throat, looked at her daughter through the rear view mirror.

"How?"

"It's a secret."

"Mikasa—"

"It's a secret."

Her poor mother was so dumbfounded that her face was even comical. She blinked her eyes rapidly as if there was something in them and shook her head. Her mouth opened to say more, but a single glance at the time deviated all objections and replaced them with a raised finger pointed at the child and a menacing, "This conversation isn't over."

And they drove away. Mikasa day dreamed.

**—****o—**

Eren brought her chocolate every day. He didn't allow for a single recess to go by where Mikasa didn't have a homemade lunch to eat. She didn't expect him to keep the daily ritual, since she discovered that he was—believe it or not—quite shy.

Yes. Eren Jaeger, when it came to certain things, was the shy type.

He gave the lunches to the librarian, so that she would pass them on to Mikasa when she was in the library all by herself. "It's from Eren," she'd tell her, a smile dusting her lips. "Thank you," Mikasa would reply, turning her head to find the boy through the library's window, immediately recognizing the distant specter of his body, the messy, disheveled head of brown hair and the legs that flickered to and fro, flashing at lightning speed beneath him and kicking a soccer ball about. She'd seen him trip over them once and fall flat on his face. Mikasa had laughed to herself, quietly. She realized, that when it came to Eren, she was always laughing or smiling.

_Eren Jaeger_.

There was something fierce about his name, something strong, and she knew that it was more than his acts of kindness that made it linger in her spirit. It was his eyes, his smile, the dimple that she'd seen only a handful of times. It was… him. All of him. Eren as a whole. That_'_s what fascinated her.

Each day, he brought her a different kind of chocolate. Some days it was milk chocolate, others it was dark chocolate, mostly it was just whatever he could get his hands on: Mars chocolate bars, Snickers, Hershey's Kisses, yada-yada. Mikasa never once complained, except for when he stopped writing her notes and slipping them into her lunches. The meals felt barren without his voice captured in his handwriting. She wondered why he did that, why he no longer sent her little letters with her meals. Not that it bothered her for long, though—there was chocolate that needed to be eaten.

Gradually, the sandwiches' quality improved. Instead of peanut butter and jelly, they became BLT's, turkey sandwiches, tuna—he even left her a meatball sandwich once. She ate them all, suspicious, contriving a plan to thank him for the sudden upgrade, but she never found the courage to deliver her own dare. For some odd reason, Eren felt as distant and impossible to reach as if he were a king, and her a lowly commoner. His lunches, the different types of sandwiches and chocolates, were the only interactions they had with one another for what felt like a long time: Eren benevolently—absently—providing her with food, and Mikasa spiritually—and also absently—thanking him for it.

It was one cloudy afternoon, when she couldn't find him playing outside that no lunch had been delivered to her. Mikasa would be lying if she said that she hadn't felt disappointed—but not because she had to go through the day without food, but because she'd discovered that Eren had been absent. The entire school felt empty without him there, without his screams and his laughter and his dirty soccer ball shooting through the air. The walls grew taller and the sunlight dimmed and the circus of life around her paled in her indifference. What was the joy of school without Eren in it? The answer was simple:

There was none.

The next day, though, she received a paper bag containing her lunch. There was extra chocolate inside, and a written apology.

"It's from you-know-who," the librarian smiled, her old eyes crinkling with a silent, motherly joy that reminded Mikasa very much of Mama. Her young eyes crinkled also, and she hastened to read the note as soon as she noticed the slip of paper folded inside.

_**Sorry about yesterday. I had to take care of my mom.**_

_It's okay,_ Mikasa whispered in her heart. _Please don't be sorry, Eren. _She wished that she was braver. Brave enough to corner him in school, to verbally thank him for being this kind to her. But Eren was constantly surrounded by those that bullied her, and their presence always cemented her feet to the ground. How could a commoner approach a king when he had an army? An angry army? A battalion that despised her for no reason at all? Vermin, gook, chicken curry. Who was she to approach him in any way? To them, she was no one. And she couldn't help but feel this sort of humiliation stain a blotch in her own self-esteem.

That same day in art class, however, when she was busy working on a painting by herself, she received another note. It had appeared out of nowhere, and her stomach tightened when she realized who the note was from.

_**How are you?**_

Eren.

Boom, boom, boom. Her heart pounded in her chest.

She held her breath for a moment and looked around. Eren's back was to her, as usual, but he sat only a seat away, surrounded by his usual crowd save for Sarah. He was so close! Within arm's reach! How come she hadn't noticed him approaching? How come she hadn't sensed him in the air? All heads were bowed and submerged in their work, including Mrs. Ral's, so Mikasa was quick to scribble an answer and fold her own note before handing it over to him.

Her heart felt like it might explode, it was beating so fiercely. She reached out, very slowly, and tapped Eren on the back of his shoulder. Electricity sparked where the tip of her finger met the fabric of his shirt and felt the skin, the muscle, the bone that laid beneath.

Eren turned to look at her. His eyes were calm and green and blue and gold and so, so _bright_.

Mikasa swallowed. Hard.

And then handed him the piece of paper.

Eren took it without uttering a word, and then turned right back around to read it. Some small heads lifted to peer at him with curiosity. He ignored them. Mikasa did too.

_I'm good. How are you?_

From the corner of her eye, she could see him scribbling down his answer. His arm moved quickly, scrawling his words down so feverishly she could hear the scratch of his pencil rasping the paper under the ferocity of his words. When he was done, he folded his note, shot a quick glance at Mrs. Ral to make sure she wasn't looking (she wasn't, thankfully), and then slipped his arm behind him and held the note out for Mikasa to take.

She was quick to retrieve it, quick to unfold it, even quicker to skim her eyes through his handwriting.

_**Fine. How was the chocolate? I told mom to give you extra today.**_

Scribble. Fold. Check on Mrs. Ral. Deliver.

_It was good. Thank you._

Scribble. Fold. Check on Mrs. Ral. Deliver.

_**Anything else you might want?**_

Scribble. Fold. Check on Mrs. Ral. Deliver.

_You mean for lunch?_

That is how their note passing went, until Mikasa's mild uneasiness at the odd nature of their practice subsided and she felt excitement swelling in her chest. She was talking to Eren! Through notes, yeah. But it was better than nothing, right?!

_**Yeah silly.**_

Scribble. Fold. Check on Mrs. Ral. Deliver.

_No thanks. I'm happy with my lunches._

She waited for his answers with the shadow of a smile on her lips.

_**I'm glad your happy.**_

(Eren did too.)

_Thank you._

_**If you ever want anything just tell me. I know that Armin being absent means that you spend lots of time alone.**_

_He's sick. It's okay._

_**Why are peapol always sick? I hate it.**_

_I don't know. I hate it too._

_**I'm sorry.**_

_For what?_

_**For Armin being sick and leaving you all alone.**_

_Don't be sorry. I like being alone._

_**Relly?**_

_Yeah._

_**Don't you feel sad when your alone?**_

_No._

_**I do.**_

_Why?_

_**I don't know. Being alone usualy makes me feel sad.**_

_Not to me._

_**Cool.**_

_Thank you for the big sandwiches. They keep me full all day._

_**I'm glad you like them. Mom makes them. All I know how to do is cereal.**_

_That's fine. You told your mom to make me sandwiches?_

_**Actualy, making you lunch was her idea. She's been doing them from the start.**_

_Really?_

_**Yup.**_

_I thought you were the ones making them. How?_

_**How what?**_

_How did she know my lunch was being stolen?_

_**I told her.**_

_Why?_

_**Becose I felt like it.**_

_Okay._

_**Sorry. It just slipped out of me. I tell her evrything.**_

_It's okay. I think it's very kind of her._

_**I'll tell her you said that. She'll be glad.**_

_Actually Eren there's something more I would like from you._

_**What is it?**_

_Tell your mother I say thanks._

_**Will do.**_

_Should I make her a flower crown?_

_**She would love that!**_

_Okay. I'll bring it to school sumday._

_**I'll make sure she gets it!**_

_Eren._

_**Mikasa.**_

_One more thing, okay?_

_**Sure.**_

She stared at her own note for a very long time before standing up to discard it in the trash can. With that, their interaction ended that day.

_Please be happy_,read the note Eren never received.

**—****o—**

Ballet, mixed with school and homework, was utterly exhausting.

Papa was away on a business trip, so it was just her and Mama for a few days. Her mother had let go of the conversation they'd had a few days prior, and Mikasa had hoped that perhaps she'd forgotten all about it. But that was not the case, unfortunately. Her mother's memory was more acute than that.

It was one day, when they were on their way home after ballet lessons, that Mama brought it up again. And even though Mikasa's head bobbed and her eyes drifted off and the sun no longer brightened up the sky, her mother absolutely _grilled_ her, begging for the specific names of the people who called her names. Mikasa didn't remember whether she'd murmured the answers truthfully or not. Her feet ached and her back and legs were sore from rigorous hours of dance practice. (They'd focused on doing splits that day. Who knew splits could be so exhausting? And to think she still had three pages worth of math homework to do. _Barf._)

"When your father gets back from his trip, I am going to tell him," Mama said, in her subtle Japanese accent that sometimes made her sound angrier than what she appeared to be. "I'm not happy with these kids calling you names. Is that all they do?"

"Yes, Mama," Mikasa had lied, far too tired to resume the conversation. "That's all."

"Hmm. Still, I'm telling him."

"Yes, Mama."

She muttered something in her native language, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. Mikasa rested her head back on her seat, closing her eyes and praying for slumber. It was another fifteen minutes before they made it home, so she thought a nice, short nap would do her well. "_Kusokurae,_ " she heard her mother say. She didn't know much Japanese, but she'd heard those words enough times to remember them. _E__at shit_, they meant. Mama was talking about the bullies.

Mikasa giggled quietly, sleepily, smiling because Mama made the funniest faces when she was mad. Under the weight of anger, her expressions were unnaturally severe for a woman as calm as her. Scary. Like her head might implode.

She wondered if Eren's mother made such funny faces too. And did he laugh at them?

**—****o—**

_**Mikasa.**_

_What?_

_**Why did the chicken cross the road?**_

_To get to the other side._

_**WRONG! It was actually a duck and then you killed it because you know how to kill ducks.**_

_Very funny._

_**Okay your turn.**_

_What's a fish without an eye?_

_**What?**_

_A fsh (because eye and i sound the same get it?)_

_**Oh my god.**_

_It's better than your joke._

_**It's horrible.**_

_Still better than yours._

_**Mikasa.**_

_What?_

_**Knock knock.**_

_Whose there?_

_**Old lady.**_

_Old lady who?_

_**Old lady who!**_

_I don't get it._

_**Say it out loud.**_

_No._

_**Do it. You'll get the joke.**_

_No we're working._

_**If you don't do it I will.**_

_Don't you dare._

_**Do it.**_

_No._

_**Five.**_

_What are you doing?_

_**Four.**_

_Eren._

_**Three.**_

_Eren no._

_**Two.**_

_Don't do it._

_**I'm gonna.**_

_Please no._

"_OLD-LADY-WHOOOOOOO!_"

"EREN JAEGER!"

"Hah?"

"What do you think you're doing, child?"

"Yodeling, ma'am."

"And did I give you permission to make such an atrociously abrupt noise in the middle of your assignment?"

"No, Mrs. Ral, you did not give me permission to yodel so atro-ruptly or whatever."

"Then why are you yodeling?"

"I got the sudden impulse to do it, ma'am."

"Get back to work, Eren, and don't do it again. You're distracting your classmates."

"Sorry, Mrs. Ral."

_Oh my god I can't stop laughing._

_**Me niether that was really funny.**_

_I can't breathe. I'm going to explode. Her face was so funny._

_**I know. Demon eyes, rite?**_

_She looked like she was ready to kill you._

_**Like you with the ducks.**_

_Eren stop making me laugh I'm gonna pee myself._

_**But your laugh is so funny. Are you wheezing?**_

_Peeing!_

_**OH NO!**_

_Just kidding but seriously stop._

_**Mikasa your face is red.**_

_Because I'm trying not to laugh! My poor bladder!_

_**Careful you don't actualy pee yourself Ackerman. Sarah and her gang are watching you rite now.**_

_Poop._

_**That too.**_

**—****o—**

Her father came home on a Thursday, _way_ after dinner had been served. Mikasa was bathing when she heard the front door open and Mama talking softly, followed by a deeper, more baritone voice. She gasped when she recognized it, whispered, "Papa!" before hurrying to wash off all the soap suds from her hair. Butt naked, she hopped out of the tub to get dry and dressed herself quickly, leaving some of the buttons in her pink pajamas undone.

A few short seconds later, and her bare feet were thumping on the wooden floor all the way to her parents' bedroom, where she swung the door open without knocking and threw herself on the bed beside the giant lump beneath the covers that suggested Papa's presence. She dipped her small frame underneath, poking her father's calves with her toes and making him groan drowsily. She didn't care if he was tired or sleepy from work, she kept poking and nudging until he turned around to lay on his side and face her. Papa pulled the bed sheets up over their heads, kissing her nose, smirking when she responded by giggling. He motioned for her to be quiet so that Mama wouldn't hear them from all the way in the bathroom. Mikasa nodded, then giggled again.

"Hello, princess."

"Hi, Papa."

"How was school today?"

Her eyebrows pinched together in thought. Well, today, Eren had sent her notes and he'd also given her extra chocolate, Sarah was absent, and for the first time in a very long time, she was finally able to utilize the school bathrooms. Her lunch was stolen, yes, but lately, Mikasa was feeling grateful for its disappearances, since the misfortune is what brought Eren closer to her in the first place, so…

"Well..." she breathed. Her father noticed the faint blotches of red that flourished on her pasty cheeks when she told him, "It was great."

"Really?" he asked, pinching her cheeks and smiling as she recoiled from his hands, snickering.

"Yes!"

"Hmm," he hummed, twirling his fingers into her damp, knotted hair. His blonde eyebrows came together, a small crease denting the skin between them. "Your mother told me about your troubles in school. What's this about kids calling you names?"

"Some of them call me chicken curry, Papa."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Well, that's a weird name to call someone."

"I know," the girl sighed, wrinkling her nose. "I don't even like chicken curry."

Papa was silent for a long time, thinking. The light of the lamp that lit her parents' room filtered in through the pale bed sheets, making his eyes look even softer, even more honey-colored than what they already were. Slowly, Mikasa raised a hand to his cheek, holding the side of his face and closing her eyes to the feeling of his skin, of his prickly, sprouting stubble. She listened close to his breathing. _Papa, _sighed her heart, content. He was there, he was in front of her. Sometimes, Mikasa missed him so much that she felt like she could die. What importance did bullies have when she lived in a world where Papa existed? How much did their opinions of her matter when she had her father to love? They didn't, they held no importance at all. With him, she was safe, she was whole, she was tremendously happy.

"Mikasa," the man whispered, and she suddenly adored the sound of her own name. To hell with the kids at school that make fun of her for being named after a battleship. Her name was_ awesome_. Whenever Papa said it, it made her feel strong. "Listen," he continued once she'd opened her eyes. "Don't tell your mother, but if any of those kids call you bad names again, you have my full permission to punch them."

"Really, Papa?"

"Yes."

"In the face?"

"Square in the face."

She smiled. "Okay."

He smiled too. "Perfect."

And their giggles swirled around them in the air. Before she knew it, Papa began attacking her face with such forceful, fervent kisses that Mikasa couldn't help her loud, high-pitched squeal.

"What is going on?" her mother called from the bathroom. Her father's fingers were now digging into her ribs, tickling her so furiously Mikasa flailed and screamed between her laughs.

"Nothing!" Papa called back, the bed sheets cascading down the sides of his head and making him look like a nun as he knelt over his daughter's squirming body, fingers working wildly at her sides. "The princess has arrived to the castle!" he exclaimed over her frantic shrieks. "Hear ye, hear ye! She has come to make her presence heard!"

"Mama!"

"What's that, your highness?"

"Mama! Help me!"

"She calls for the queen! The queen has been summoned!"

"MamaaaAAAA-AHAHAHAHAHA!"

"Queen! Queen, you must help her! She's under attack!"

"Be gentle with her, Charles," Mama said calmly as she walked into the room, unaffected by her daughter's cries of misery. She continued to fiddle with her earrings, placing them on the bedside table as Mikasa extended her arms to her in vain, tears forming at the corners of her eyes while she wheezed.

"Do you surrender, your highness?"

"No!"

"Do you yield?"

"Never!"

"Then you must pay the price for your stubborn ways!"

"Charles," Mama sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to them. "If she pees herself, I'm going to be very angry."

"Princesses don't pee their pj's!"

"I'm gonna!"

"Charles."

"Say it."

"HAHAHAHA I CAN'T— HAHAHA— I CAN'T BREATHE!"

"Charles, let her breathe."

"I surrender!"

"What's that?"

"I SURRENDER!"

"She surrenders!" Papa shouted triumphantly, scooping his daughter up in an embrace. "The princess yields!" Their laughter erupted in the air as they fell back and wrestled on the bed, disturbing the mattress under the force of their bodies. Mama rolled her eyes at them. "Animals," she muttered to herself, her body bobbing in the waves they were producing, the hint of a smile on her lips.

"Gotcha!" Mikasa grinned, pinning her father down on the bed. Compared to him, she was tiny, weightless. But Papa faked a pained groan and wailed, "Oh, no! She's captured me! I have underestimated her strength!" Mikasa was giggling too hard to keep up her intimidation act. She wiped at the tears in her eyes, her ribs sore from Papa's tickling, her cheeks aching from laughing and smiling so hard.

"Mikasa," her mother crooned, rising from the bed to go into the bathroom and fetch a hairbrush, "time to brush your hair and get ready for bed, sweetie."

"Awww," she whined, pleading eyes peering down at Papa. "Can I stay here tomorrow? Please?"

"Not a chance." There was no debating it. Papa's eyes were sad when they met hers again.

"Sorry, baby," he told her. "But we'll do something this weekend. I promise."

"Okay," the girl nodded, relinquishing her hold on his wrists. She went to hop off of him, but his hands came down to cradle both sides of her face, turning it to him.

"Now, what's this about a prince?" he asked her. Mikasa's heart lodged itself in her throat.

"A what?"

"Your mother told me you were saved," Papa smirked, waggling his eyebrows. "By a prince, eh?"

For a beat, she opened her mouth as if to say something, but her thin lips sealed together and she rolled off of her father and bounced off the bed, declaring curtly, "Bye, gotta go."

Papa laid still for a bemused second. "Wait, what?"

"Goodnight. Love you."

"Wait! Come back!" he sat up on the bed, his hair a total mess. "Where are you going? You're not going to tell me?"

"I'm sleepy. Bye."

The door slammed shut behind her and she left. Seconds later, Mama returned from the bathroom with a hairbrush in her hands, gawking at her husband with an expression that was just as lost as his. "What happened?" she asked him. Charles shook his head.

"I have no idea."

**—****o—**

_**Mikasa.**_

_Yes?_

_**Snickers or reeses?**_

_Snickers._

_**Okay. Mom wanted to know becose we're going grocery shopping. How was lunch today?**_

_Great. Thank you._

_**Your welcome.**_

_Sorry I don't have your mama's flower crown made yet. Ballet and homework are taking over my life._

_**That's okay lol. Take all the time you need.**_

_Lol?_

_**What?**_

_What does that mean?_

_**Oh my god you dont know what lol means?**_

_No._

_**It means long onion legs.**_

_WHAT!_

_**Yep.**_

_Onions don't have legs!_

_**I know that's why it's funny.**_

_Okay._

_**Okay.**_

_Have you talked to Armin lately?_

_**I havint. You?**_

_Yeah I saw him yesterday. He's feeling better. He'll be back next week he said._

_**Good. I relly miss him.**_

_Me too._

_**How's balley?**_

_You mean ballet._

_**Same shit.**_

_Don't cuss. It's good. How's soccer?_

_**Sorry. Same as always. Have you killed any ducks lately?**_

_No. Have you learned any new songs on your guitar?_

_**I wish.**_

_I'm sorry._

_**It's okay.**_

_I think the teacher is noticing us passing notes._

_**We should stop.**_

_Yeah bye._

_**See ya!**_

**—****o—**

"Mikasa, are you happy?" Mama asked her one night when she was tucking her in for bed. The question had taken her off guard, made her eyes linger on her mother for a moment.

"Of course, Mama," she frowned, yawning. Ballet had been particularly hard on her that day and she was very tired, but in Mama's eyes was something she'd never ever seen before. "What's wrong?" she asked her mother, placing her small hand on the woman's slender thigh. Her mother sighed, but forced her prettiest smile, tucking a raven lock of hair behind her ear.

"Nothing," she whispered, leaning forth to kiss her daughter on the top of her head. "Mama worries sometimes, is all."

"About what?" Mikasa queried, blinking up at her as she pulled away. "Why do you worry, Mama?"

"You're too young to understand, sweetie," she dismissed, sitting upright on the edge of her bed and smoothing an imaginary ruck she'd made on the covers. "But I worry about your happiness."

"My happiness?"

"Yes, your happiness. I want to make sure that you are content, that every day of your life, you feel joy and are filled with a profound sense of purpose."

"Oh." Mama was right. Mikasa was too young to understand, for she had no idea what the heck she had just said to her. "Hmm," she hummed, blinking sleepily. She couldn't fathom where Mama was going with all this, but something told her that smiling would make her feel better. So she did. Mikasa faked her prettiest smile too, squeezing her mother's hand to get her attention. "I'm okay, Mama. See? I'm smiling."

"You are indeed," her mother noted, caressing the side of her face, "but sometimes I wonder: are you smiling on the inside, too?"

"On the inside, Mama?"

"Is your heart happy? Do you smile in your soul?"

She thought hard about the question. "I think so, yes."

"That is what's important to me, see. That is what Mama worries about: whether her little Mikasa truly smiles on the inside or not. I know that moving has been hard on you; to go so drastically from one world to another, it must be very hard for someone your age. But you like to keep secrets from me, my child, and I don't very much like that at all. Sometimes I fear that what the children in school do to you is worse than what you actually say."

"Please don't worry," the girl whispered, closing her eyes. "I'm okay."

"Do they make fun of you? Do they make you feel bad about who you are? About how you look?" Mikasa didn't answer her question, instead opened her eyes only to gaze at some blank point in space. "So it really_ is_ bad, honey?" her mother murmured, slanted eyes going soft. "I need you to tell me if it is. I will call the school immediately."

"No, it's not that bad. There's people who are nice to me too. People who defend me."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Mama was quiet for a moment, fiddling with the wedding band on her ring finger—and old nervous habit of hers. "And is that…" she started tentatively, "that… prince you mentioned?"

Mikasa brought her index finger to her lips, pressing the side to her mouth and breathing, "Shh."

"Shhh. Right, right," her mother nodded, smiling a little. "I won't tell your father."

"Thank you."

They snickered quietly, faces scrunching up in identical grins, and Mikasa deemed the conversation over, closing her eyes slowly to submerge herself into a deep, enticing sleep. She waited for Mama to kiss her forehead and bid her goodnight, maybe even sing her a song or two, but what she got instead was her long, thin fingers lacing through her own, and yet another grown up, motherly question.

"How is this uh," she hesitated, fixing a fallen strap of her nightgown back over her shoulder. Mikasa's eyes fell to her mother's chest, watching as the pale skin swayed subtly with her breathing. "This… 'prince' of yours. How is he with you?"

The sleepy girl smiled softly, thinking fondly of the boy. "He's very kind, Mama. He's kind to me even without knowing me."

"Is he handsome?"

"He is."

"Does he have a pretty name?"

"Oh, yes."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you."

Her mother gasped, wounded. "Why not?"

"It's a secret."

"Hmm," her bony shoulders slumped, mildly disappointed. "Can I at least know what he looks like?"

"He looks like…" Mikasa started, rather unsure of where to go. How could she describe someone like Eren to Mama—to anyone? He was loud, and impulsive and brave, but he was also shy in the sense that he wouldn't personally approach her. He had the brightest eyes she'd ever seen on a human being, and the brightest smile, and the messiest, brownest hair. He was made of extremes; God had crafted him to be extraordinary. He had a small dimple, a secret, that flashed whenever he grinned or laughed too hard. And a voice like a king—confident, commanding; it made itself heard. "He looks like…" she began again, tapping a finger on her chin. "A nice cup of hot chocolate. With marshmallows and whipped cream."

"What?" her mother laughed. "Really?"

"Yes!" the girl chirped, laughing too. "The feeling I get when I drink hot chocolate is the feeling I feel in my tummy when I see him."

"Do you fancy him, Mikasa?" Mama asked, quirking a brow.

"No." At least she didn't _think _she did. "I don't think so."

"Then why do you call him a prince if you don't fancy him?"

"I'm not lying, Mama," was her whisper, her dark eyes twinkling in the light. "He saved me. He made me feel special when everyone was cruel. He made me feel like I belong. That's what princes do in all those stories you read to me. They help the princess remember her worth. They make her feel beautiful and important. Right?"

"Yes…"

"That's why he is a prince to me. He reminds me of one. He's so nice, Mama. He makes me feel like I'm normal."

"But, Mikasa," Mama breathed, her features falling sadly. "You_ are_ normal."

A solemn darkness filled the places in her eyes that had twinkled only seconds before. Mikasa bowed her gaze, lamenting, "No, I'm not, Mama. There's nothing normal about me."

"Why do you say that?"

"I know it. I feel it deep inside. I'm not like everyone else."

"Does this… sadden you?"

"Sometimes."

Her mother's brows knitted together. She picked at some invisible lint on Mikasa's bed, thinking for a long moment before rising from her daughter's bed to get her favorite doll, Ningyo. When she returned, her body sinking part of the mattress where she sat, she smoothed the doll's frazzled hair and handed her over to Mikasa.

"Listen to me," she whispered, lifting the comforter so that it covered Ningyo too. Her hands were like silk on Mikasa's skin, holding her face and squishing her cheeks softly. Only after kissing the tip of her nose, did her mother speak again. "There is nothing wrong with being different. There is something marvelous living inside of you, my love. You are gentle, and strong, and brilliant. You are sensitive to the world around you and perceive things solely as they are. I believe—I truly believe, that you are magnificent, Mikasa."

The young girl's features slowly brightened one by one, spirits noticeably raised as she looked deep into her mother's eternal, ebony eyes and smiled, "Really?"

"Yes," she smiled back, pinching her nose. "I know it in my scraggly old bones."

Mikasa giggled, clasping Mama's thin wrist and pushing her hands away from her face gently. "You're not so old, Mama."

Her mother, her beautiful, gorgeous mother, gave a long, tired sigh. "I'm not so young anymore either."

"Nonsense," the child muttered. Mama grinned.

"The kids in your school? Don't let them take away your strength. That is your identity, who you are. Honor yourself, Mikasa. Always. When the entire world tells you that you are nothing, that is when you_ have _to believe in yourself the most. Nobody else can do it for you." She propped an arm behind her, twisting her body sideways so that she was reclined just over the bump of Mikasa's body beneath the comforter. Her her small, button nose wrinkled suddenly. "Not even a prince, you hear?"

"Okay."

"You will honor yourself, yes? For your Mama?"

"I will."

"Pinky swear?"

"Pinky swear."

They coiled their pinkies together and Mama pecked the side of her small hand, then leaned forward and kissed her eyelids, and her forehead, and whispered, "I love you, sweetie. I love you so, so much."

"Can Ningyo get a kiss too?"

"Of course," she gasped, slapping a hand on her thigh as if she were mad at herself for having forgotten. "_Oyasumi __nasai_," she whispered to the doll after she'd received her kiss as well. "Goodnight, baby," she whispered to her daughter, kissing her forehead one last time.

"Goodnight," Mikasa smiled, feeling safe. Mama booped their noses together.

"Don't suck your thumb."

"I won't," she promised, and with that, her mother stood to walk away. Mikasa's eyes lingered sleepily on the shape of her body, how slender and graceful she seemed when she walked. _Your mother is the most beautiful woman in the world,_ Papa always said to her. And she had to agree wholeheartedly. She definitely was.

"Mama?" she called after her mother flicked the lights off. She turned her head and looked at her, one hand curled around the doorknob, her body already halfway out the door.

"Yes, honey?"

"Do onions have legs?"

Mother stared at daughter for a silent moment, frowning at the question. "No, they don't."

Mikasa hummed and shut her eyes, so Mama closed the door slowly—still frowning—and watched the light that crept in from the hallway thinning gradually on her bed.

As the yellow glow ebbed to a thin slit, she could've sworn she heard the child whisper, "See, Ningyo? I told ya."

**—****o—**

_**Fite them! Beat them up! Punch them til their bloody and crying on their knees!**_

_What are you talking about?_

_**How can you hope to win if you don't fite them? Don't let them treat you so bad!**_

_You mean Sarah and the bullies?_

_**YEAH!**_

_There's no point._

_**Yes their is.**_

_What?_

_**You defend yourself.**_

_But they don't matter. Mama says they don't matter._

_**Only the victors are allowed to live! How can you hope to win if you don't fite!**_

_Eren calm yourself._

_**Sit with me at lunch tomarrow.**_

_I can't._

_**Why not? I want you to.**_

_They'll all be there. Sarah sits with you at lunch._

_**So? Please come I will defend you.**_

_That won't be neseserry._

_**Mikasa Ackerman please sit with me at lunch.**_

_No._

_**Pretty please?**_

_No._

_**With a cherry on top?**_

_A cherry?_

_**Yes.**_

_On top of what?_

_**Forget it.**_

_Okay._

_**Sit with me.**_

_No._

_**Don't you get tired of the libary?**_

_I like it. It has books._

_**The cafeteria has food and peapol and that's better than books.**_

_Never._

(He sent her a drawing of children sitting at a large, round table. Two of them had arrows pointed at them. One said, _**me**_and the other, _**you**_.)

_Stop it._

_**Please?**_

_NO NO NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo._

_**I'll bring you extra chocolate.**_

_What?_

_**You know what.**_

_What kind of chocolate?_

_**Dark chocolate.**_

_Fine._

_**Yay!**_

_I'll bring your mother's flower crown too then._

_**Sweet!**_

_Okay._

_**Yay!**_

_Stop sending me notes. Mrs. Ral is going to notice and I don't want to get in trouble._

_**Bye.**_

_Bye._

_**Tomarrow. Lunch. Remmember.**_

_STOP SENDING NOTES!_

_**Okay fsh. Bye.**_

**—****o—**

Mikasa was very excited.

She picked out the best flowers in Mama's garden for her flower crown. It had taken her nearly two hours to select the best ones—and only the best would do. The flower crown needed to be perfect.

It was already nighttime by the time she came back home, dropping her basket on the small desk in her room before commencing her work. She labored for a long time to perfect the flower crown, weaving daisies, carnations, small heathers and asters carefully into the halo she told Mama to make for a base. When all the flowers were secured, she tied a bow around the back for decoration, sighing in exhaustion and admiring her creation.

She didn't get much sleep that night, both because she was far too excited to fall asleep and also because she'd gone to bed so late, she had to wake up for school a mere five hours later. She'd never gone a day in her life with such little rest, but when Mama took her to school that morning, Mikasa was as energetic as ever, happily awaiting the day ahead.

Lunch time couldn't have come sooner. Mikasa hid the flower crown in a safe spot in the library, the librarian having had promised that she would keep an eye on the precious piece. When Mikasa had returned some hours later to retrieve it, the old lady asked her who it was for.

"It's for you-know-who's mother," the girl whispered, unable to contain her smile. "It's my way of thanking her for all the meals she's made for me." The librarian gasped loudly and cheered, so utterly overjoyed that Mikasa felt for a moment that the woman was exaggerating. But old people did that sometimes. Exaggerate, that is. "Go, child!" she encouraged, "Tell me what his reaction is when he gets it, I want to know!"

"Yes!" and she was off.

The school cafeteria was teeming with bodies and clattering with noise. Chatter filled the air, laughter rumbled on the walls. The floor shook beneath the mighty stomp of running children. It was a damn circus. By God, a dreadfully intimidating place.

Mikasa swallowed—

_Gulp._

_Ba-dump, ba-dump._

—and commenced to walk.

Her heart was beating so fast she felt that she could vomit. Her eyes surveyed the cafeteria, looking for a messy brown head among the crowd of blondes and brunettes. Not many kids had hair like Mikasa's, she realized, as she looked around. Hers was the darkest, the straightest, the only one up in a pristine, flawless bun. It was an entire minute before she found what she quickly recognized to be Eren's head, tilted back to catch the bits of food his friends were throwing at him.

Eren. He sat on a table on the farthest wall to the left. She could tell by the way his shoulders shook as he swayed to the sides that he was laughing. There was so much noise, she couldn't hear his laughter. But she could make it out, imagine it, decipher the patterns it made as it was released into the world.

Smoothing down the skirt of her school uniform and taking a deep breath, Mikasa began to make her way towards him.

His back was to her. He hadn't seen her yet. With every step, she gradually drew closer. Closer. Closer. Closer, until she was halfway there. Her heart was in her throat. She swallowed dryly to force it back down to her chest. "Calm yourself, heart," she whispered to it. "It's okay. We're almost there. Before you know it, it'll be over." A grape was tossed to Eren's face. He went to catch it with his mouth, but it bumped his nose and bounced off to the ground instead. This time, she could hear his laughter perfectly. It rattled in her soul.

Mikasa was a mere four tables away when one of his friends stilled suddenly and nudged his shoulder. They whispered something in his ear. Eren turned around in his seat. He looked at her.

Smiles were exchanged.

A dimple flashed incredulously.

Mikasa's heart quickened even more, threatening to burst at any second.

She was almost there. She was so close. She could already see the shimmer in his eyes, the dimple created by his smile, the one crooked tooth in his grin. She could already hear his voice, saying hi to her, calling out her name, asking—

"Where do you think you're going?"

Sarah. Suddenly, she materialized out of nowhere and cut into her line of walking. She stood like a tall like a skyscraper, shrinking Mikasa to a halt in the middle of her steps.

"Uh…"the small girl stammered, wetting her lips. "I would like to get through, please."

Sarah guffawed. Her cruel, malicious laugh gashed her like a dagger. "And what's that?" she pointed at the flower crown in Mikasa's hands. "Think you're going to a party, little gink?"

"No," Mikasa gritted through her teeth, but soon realized that her hands were shaking. Eren. She needed to get to Eren. There was no time to waste. Couldn't Sarah wait until she had finished with him to bully her? "Please let me through," she asked her nicely. The blonde girl responded with a scowl.

"Make me."

Dark eyes flew to Eren, who was slowly rising to his feet, the smile wiped clean off his features. Everyone in his table was rising to their feet as well, she noticed. Actually, everyone around her was too. The cafeteria screeched with the scratch of chairs scraping the floor, the soft murmur of children training their eyes on her.

"He wants nothing to do with you," Sarah seethed venomously. Mikasa had to blink up at her a couple of times before she realized she was speaking of Eren. "You're nothing. You're just a filthy gook. Run along, little Chinkerbell, before I hurt you," she jabbed a finger on her chest, pushing her back a little. Mikasa swallowed again, praying loudly in her being. Heat rose to her cheeks, tears stung in her eyes. _Kami, please, make her go away. Make her leave me in peace. I just want to get through her. I only want to—_

Suddenly, quick fingers snatched the flower crown from her little hands. Just like that, in a mere flash, Mikasa was barren of her sacred gift, of her long hours of hard work. She didn't even have enough time to breathe before Sarah was holding it up to show everyone, chuckling so cruelly her chest stuttered like the earth during an earthquake.

"Look at this, everybody!" she announced to the audience of keen ears. "Chicken Curry made a flower crown!"

A chorus of laughter struck Mikasa across the face. The children giggled and tittered, forming a cruel, swooshing sea of mockery. Only Eren's face twisted with fury instead of amusement.

"Give it back, Sarah," he growled at the blonde, adapting a tone Mikasa had never heard him use before. There was no hint of playfulness in his words. He was giving her an order. "Stop being so mean. She's done nothing to you."

"She can speak for herself, Jaeger!" a boy screamed a few tables away. Eren's cheeks were turning red with anger.

"It's not fair!" he hissed. "Leave her alone!"

"Ooooooooooh," someone crooned, "look! Eren has a crush on her."

"Shut up."

"Jaeger has a crush on the gook!"

"Be quiet!"

"Eren, how sweet! Is she your girlfriend?"

"I didn't know you liked chicken curry _that_ much!"

"Does that make him a gook now, too?"

"Eren's not a gook, idiot. Only she is."

"Oh."

"Jaeger's in love with the chink!"

"_Eren and Chinkerbell sitting __i__n a tree,_" they sang. "_K-I-S-S-I-N-G!_"

Mikasa's breathing suffered under the weight of everything that was happening around her. She felt the tears, the suffocation, the hyperventilation that strangled her lungs. Her eyes shot once more to Eren. _Fight back_, he mouthed to her, ignoring the kids around him. _Defend yourself. Fight her!_

"You know what?" Sarah's cheeks were red with anger, too. A deep hatred boiled deep inside of her. She glowered at Mikasa so fiercely, her blue eyes seem to come aflame. "I hate you," she spat, "and I hate this stupid crown."

Instantly, a flurry of motion took place before her very eyes. Sarah's hands worked furiously at ripping the crown to pieces. Flower petals rained down to the ground like colorful snow. Mikasa's gasp was loud. "No!" she screamed, but the thing was hurled violently to the ground and Sarah's shoe came stomping down on it over and over again until the flowers—what were left of them—were all crushed.

The poor girl sobbed helplessly as she watched her creation be destroyed. The entire cafeteria whirred with activity and excitement. Some children cheered, some objected, some averted their eyes in indifference, some said nothing at all, only pitied the girl as she cried freely before all of them.

_They don't matter,_ a little voice said in her head. _They don't matter. Don't let them see you cry. Don't let them take your strength, your dignity. Honor yourself. Be strong. Do it for Mama._

But it was too late.

"No, no, no," Mikasa wept, cradling her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her small body, filling her heart with darkness and pain. Why was the world so cruel? Why did it have to be so mean to her? What had she done to deserve this? "Please, stop this, Sarah."

"Ha!" the taller girl grinned when she felt satisfied. "Look, I made it prettier for you." Mikasa's shoulders shook as she peered down at the ruined flower crown, scattered petals broken and dirty from being stepped on speckling the floor. "Let this be a lesson, Rice Ball," Sarah smirked, leaning close to hiss at her. "Stay away from him."

Heartbroken and winded, Mikasa fell to her knees, scrambling to retrieve the ribbon Mama had given her for her flower crown. The bow, although dirtied, remained intact. She hiccuped for a moment, tears dripping off her chin, her fingers brushing the mottled bow she had worked so hard to perfect. A few tables away, Eren stood, frozen, gaping at the scene before him in horror.

Mikasa's body remained on the floor, defeated. Her sobs tore deep, smiling crevices in Eren's heart. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He wanted so desperately to go out there and save her, but his arm was clutched tightly in his friend's hand, stopping him from stepping any further.

Her beautiful dark eyes never rose to meet his again—and how he wished that they would. How he yearned to see them, tears and all, to tell them it's alright, that he's not angry, that the ruined flower crown is not her fault. In his heart, he told her he was sorry. He wished telepathy was one of his skills, so that he could give her insight to his thoughts and remind her that she's worth much more than what she's going through, that she is so much better than everyone else, so much stronger.

But he didn't need to remind her.

Suddenly, Sarah turned to walk away, and in the dwindling noise of cheers and groans and laughter, a mild, calmer voice rippled through the air.

"Hey, Sarah."

Everything went still.

"Yeah?" The blonde girl smiled, turning to face Mikasa, whom was slowly rising to her feet, the ravaged flower crown trembling in her fingers.

"You forgot something," she said, sniffling. Her nose and cheeks were pink from crying. Eren could see the color all the way from where stood. "You left the ribbon."

"Excuse me?" Sarah squinted her eyes at her. "What did you just say?"

"The bow," Mikasa's voice was brittle. She looked so small. Eren wanted to close his eyes, to look away from the impending ridicule—but he couldn't desert her like that. He stared. "You left it intact."

Everyone gaped in confusion as the small girl handed the remains of the flower crown to the bully. Sarah took it, scoffing loudly, looking around her and grinning, "Can you believe this girl?" But when her head turned to face her again, a fist flew straight into her face and crashed against her nose.

A sharp, cracking sound shook the air, and a flare of blonde hair streaked everyone's vision as the taller girl flew back a few feet and landed on her ass. Gasps billowed around them, and the place went eerily silent and rigid with shock. Not a single breath was drawn when Sarah sat upright on the ground, holding a hand to her nose, wide eyes round and full of panic.

The next second, blood was dripping from her hand, tears were pouring from her eyes in rivulets. She wailed, crying for her mother like an infant. A few of the students attempted to go and help her, but Mikasa stood so tall among the crowd that nobody dared to move a single hair, suddenly fearful of the girl they'd thought could be squashed so easily before.

"I am **NOT **_**CHICKEN CURRY!**__**!**_" Mikasa roared, balling her fists by her sides. All eyes were startled. Some children even jumped. "I am not weak! I am not a gook! I'm strong! I'm stronger than all of you!"

Nobody argued.

"And you!" she pointed down at Sarah, who inched away from her in fear. "Don't you _ever _touch me again. _Ever_. You will respect me, or you will not look at me or even _breathe_ near me, you understand?"

The blonde nodded vigorously, moaning, "Yes."

"That flower crown you ruined wasn't mine," Mikasa shouted, her soft, meek voice growing to a mighty boom. "Do you realize what you've done? You destroyed something that belonged to Eren's mother! You are mean and nasty and full of dark, evil things. I feel sorry for you. I pity you for all the cruel things you have done to me and now to Eren. Apologize to us!"

"I'm sorry."

"What was that?"

"I'm sorry!"

"Say it louder. I don't think he heard you all the way back there."

"I'm sorry, Mikasa! I'm sorry, Eren! I'll never do it again!"

Mikasa sniffled, drying her tears. "Oh, you won't. Don't worry," and when she retrieved the flower crown from the ground, she undid the bow laced around it for a stunned, quiet second. It was undone in a breath, removed from the crown and held tightly in Mikasa's pale, bruised hand. Sarah's snivels punctured the room as the smaller girl made her way towards her, crimson drops of blood dappling her navy-colored skirt and the floor. In a calm, controlled gesture, Chinkerbell placed the flower crown on her blonde, stupid head, whispering, "Now, it's yours."

Sarah was the one sobbing now, the one on her knees, and the entire place watched as Mikasa twirled on her feet and walked away, leaving an astounded sea of children gaping behind her. Some went to help Sarah, who screamed in pain and cried out once more for her mom. A second too late, teachers came running into the cafeteria. Someone must've gone and alarmed them, but it was all for naught, for all they found was a weeping child, a broken nose, and the remainders of a flower crown dirtying her flaxen hair.

Eren would've cheered—laughed, even—had he not been so utterly astounded. His eyes followed Mikasa's body until she exited the cafeteria and he couldn't see her anymore. "Wow," he whispered, completely out of breath. He couldn't help but feel, but hope, that he had played a small role in what just happened.

He saw the teachers scramble worriedly around Sarah, who wailed, "It was Mikasa! Mikasa! She punched my nose!" Her cries echoed in the room, in the small bodies around her. The children watched as she was escorted out the cafeteria, still wearing that ruined flower crown and cradling her nose with blood pouring from her hands. Dots of red trailed the floor behind her. Some fallen petals did too. Mikasa's roar lingered in the air. _I'm stronger than all of yo__u, _it reminded.

Nobody ever bullied her again.


	9. Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence

**A/N: **I think this is the fastest I have ever updated this fanfiction. Since last chapter was titled after a song, I decided to do the same with this one. It's titled after Ryuichi Sakamoto gorgeous score, and I feel like it fit the ambient of this chapter perfectly.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

_.: Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence :._

.: Chapter IX :.

* * *

It's cold outside, as Jean had told her that it was—as is blatantly obvious by the way her breath billows out of her as steam, and her shoulders slightly shiver, and her stilettos crush tiny crystals of ice under their soles. And yet, how warm she feels, internally. It's sort of a silent heat, ephemeral and artificial and as promising as the idea of melting into the silence of the city that surrounds her. How odd it is, how funny, that tonight of all nights the buildings and the skyscrapers whistle quietly with the wind, instead of exploding with sound and life and music. It's Christmas, and the world seems to mourn rather than rejoice. Or maybe it's just her. Yeah, actually. Probably is.

Parties are alive everywhere, only hidden away inside walls and towers so that Mikasa is as disconnected from their current of activity as she was to the people from the gathering she's just left. Jean was right; his coat is warmer, much, much warmer than hers. And she's gotten a lot better at walking in heels, she realizes. Her steps are brisk and purposeful, although aimless. But she doesn't wobble. That's a first.

Mikasa doesn't really know where she's going, but she's going, alright. The key, she tells herself, is to keep on walking. Never stop. Something within her reverberates _walk, walk, walk, walk Mikasa just keep walking. _And she obeys. The buildings scrape the starless sky and whistle and her bare legs prickle in the cold but she's not cold, no, not really, she has a purpose and she doesn't at the same time but that's okay she just keeps walking because walking is her motive now because she just has to get away. (_Get away from what, Mikasa? What exactly is it that you're running from this time?_)

Ice crackles beneath her feet, popping and wreathing her exposed little toes like flames curling around burning firewood. That'd be nice, she thinks. Heat. But there's no way she's going back to that party, no way. She'd rather freeze stiff before going back to mingling with that phony champagne flute in her hand and that phony smile on her lips and the phony impression of interest on her face. Ugh.

She thinks of the little lights she'd seen earlier, how they'd glowed: green, blue, and gold. Her favorite compilation of colors. Due to the air's icy nip, Mikasa's pallid cheeks sprout out soft, rosy tints that resemble that of a rose. Her nose is runny, and she accidentally smears some of her makeup on Jean's coat when she goes to wipe her snot off on the sleeve. A smudged streak of her lipstick stains the expensive, cosmopolitan outerwear, and she sighs internally at the idea of having to clean it off later herself. She feels a sudden urge to rasp her face clean on the jacket, to rid herself of the makeup that compliments her features and masks her imperfections, hides her thin, dainty scar; rids her of herself, her identity, her flaws. With all this makeup on, she feels she no longer resembles her mother. The air is so cold. It makes her face itch even more.

Mikasa walks past a park, recognizing it instantly. Park Rose, Eren had called it. It's the name it has acquired from "all the damn rose bushes" it homes. The entire park is illuminated with Christmas lights, billions of tiny bulbs curling up and around the trunks, the branches, of every lanky, leaf-less tree. The last thing her eyes catch is a solitary water fountain, and you won't believe the inexplicable force that tugs at her bones for her to run over and splash her face—just straight up_ attack_ it—with water to wash off all the artificial paint. Like in that movie _Mulan_, when the protagonist wipes her face clean on the sleeves of her hanfu and cries to her reflection in the mirror, aching over the stranger she sees before her own eyes. _Who is that girl I see, staring straight back at me?_ _Why won't my reflection show who I am inside? _Because you're wearing heels, Mik. That's why.

Mikasa picks up her pace.

She walks right past the movie theater where she stumbled into Eren all those days ago. She can almost see their figures, twirling like dancers in the frigid air before tumbling towards a wall, where Eren curled a strong, safe arm around her and kept her from falling to the ground. And she'd known it right then, before even looking up at him, before meeting his blue-and-green-and-golden eyes, that it was him because that _smell_, his smell, it was ancient and delicate and home-y and there's only one person in the world that can smell that way. It used to be the smell that lingered on her scarf, her crimson scarf she always wears as a staple because she has as much fashion sense as a toe (and also because, well, reasons).

Mikasa walks even faster.

_Clack, clack, clack, _her stilettos thump on the cement, crystals of ice and glass and who-knows-what-else crunching beneath her steps. Where the hell is she even going? She's on a mission, though, by God. Brisk and fast and serious, she trots onwards like a steed. Godspeed, she tells herself. Godspeed.

It's only when her legs start to burn that she thinks to stop and gauge exactly where she finds herself.

She's seen these streets. She's seen these apartments. She's seen that lamppost, and that mailbox, and that flower pot and that car. She's seen—

_Eren?_

Mikasa stops cold on her feet.

Her insides jolt forth as if her spirit is intent on still carrying her forward. But she's frozen. Frozen in place because the figure she sees standing a few feet away looks a lot like something green and blue and gold and soft and delicate and nice and home-y. With her breath high up in her lungs, she balls her fists and flickers her gaze to her surroundings. Pounding in her chest, her heart starts screaming, _Eren! That's Eren! Look at where you've ended up! You're right by his apartment! It's him! It's him! Go to him, silly!_

_No,_ her brain spits back. _Shut up. It's not him. It can't be. That dude isn't wearing a coat, and Eren's smarter than that. And that dude has a cigarette in his mouth. Ew. Eren doesn't smoke, he's smarter than that. And that guy doesn't have stubble and Eren has stubble, okay? So why don't you just keep walking? That's right, just like that. Oh, God he's looking. He's staring. Walk faster, woman! Keep walking and try to find your way back to—!_

"Mikasa?"

"Oh!" she gasps, hands flailing. They land on her heart, which thuds against the walls of her chest and snickers, _See? I told you. _(She doesn't bother questioning how it is her heart had been right, how she'd recognized him so quickly.)

And of course, it's really him. With no coat on. And an unlit cigarette between his lips, his eyes as wide and round as giant marbles. "Mik—" he gapes at her for a second (maybe two, but who's counting?) before removing the small tube from his lips and running a hand down his mouth. He seems almost embarrassed, like she's caught him doing something he prefers to keep hidden from the world. Chaste smoke rises from his mouth, carried in his breath, and Mikasa wallows in the familiarity of his voice when he asks her, "What… What are you doing here?"

"Uh…" Her eyes dart around, fretful. She catches herself wringing her hands together, so she balls them into fists. A chill breeze slips in between her teeth and "How did you know it was me?" she talks straight out of her butt, apparently.

Mikasa cringes from the awkward waver in her voice, but Eren doesn't even flinch. No. He smiles. In fact, he smirks. In fact, there's no stubble, no crazy hair—in fact, he looks… good? He's shaved. And his hair's back in a ponytail. And a chocolate strand falls over his face. And it's the whole seeing him for the first time shebang all over again. "Who else would be walking around in the middle of winter wearing heels and a dress?" he remarks. Mikasa shivers. (And she ain't cold.)

"I…" _Breathe, okay. Breathe. You can do this, you've got this. Just act casual. Be cool. Be cool._ "What are you doing out with no coat on?" _Nice, Mikasa. Smooth._

"Um…" Okay, but she can't deny the way his eyes struggle to hold still. They dribble down the length of her body, eyeing coat, hands, kneecap, toes, then darting right back up to her face. "I was taking out the trash," he explains simply, clearing his throat. Mikasa nods her head softly.

"Oh."

The cigarette's trapped idly between his fingers. Useless. Without a second's thought, he flings it to the side, letting it roll on the sidewalk (and _fuck _that was a complete waste of a good cigarette but Mikasa's eyes are big and beautiful and watching him and he's always a nervous wreck under her gaze). "So what are you doing here?" he tries not to choke, feeling an overwhelming mix of panic and excitement. Funny how the two can mix, and mesh, and burst like wildfire inside him, spur him on. Her lashes flicker with her flitting gaze, jumping here and there and not really focusing on him.

"Um…" she sighs and thinks for a moment, frowning. "I'm just walking around?"

"By yourself?"

"Mhm. I like being alone."

"Yes, I know," he breathes, gaze dripping to her shins, her neck, her hair, her lips. "Are you lost?"

"Not really," she sputters, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. Eren's eyebrows slide up to the top of his head in skepticism. Mikasa sighs. "Okay, yes." (And her cheeks and nose are pink. He can see the color all the way from where he's standing.)

"Where are you coming from?" he queries, slipping his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Mikasa's gaze flits all over again. She looks jumpy, nervous. She swallows hard. Eren's eyes catch the faint bob of her throat. They linger there, on her neck.

"Sina Plaza," comes her lisp, breathless voice, pulling his gaze back up to her eyes. He dwells on the curve of her lashes, the shadows that fan outward and cast streaks of darkness with every blink. "Again."

"Party?"

"Yes."

"Oh." He nods up at Hitch's apartment. "Same here."

Mikasa peers up at the building beside them, and a long silence unfurls between them. For a moment, her gaze flickers over the architecture, and Eren tries to imagine what she's thinking. Can she hear the loud banter of his friends? _He_ sure can. But in a way, noises fade away when she's around him, so that all he can hear is her breathing, her presence, her constant, primal silence that's as omnipresent as the air. Ymir's shouting again, but Ymir's always shouting when she's hammered. He wonders if she actually chugged that vodka bottle like she said she would. He hopes not, but wouldn't be surprised to find out if she did it. She's kind of… extreme like that. _All _of his friends are kind of extreme like that. It helps him appreciate Mikasa's tranquil aura a little more. She's like this breath of fresh air in his world of suffocation, the gasp of life that breaches the water's surface after drowning for so long. "People," he hears her whisper suddenly, her eyes falling back to him. "Too many, I just… I needed a break."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," he smiles, and she smiles too. Silence drapes around them like a blanket, sheltering them from the rest of the world. It's just her, and him; and there's music playing quietly, muffled from way up in Hitch's flat but none of them can really hear it anymore. Eren rolls his tongue in his cheek, eyeing the way Mikasa swallows again and tucks her hands into her coat pockets. The thing's big on her, he notices. And by the way the shoulders are tailored, he can tell that it belongs to a man. _Jean_, he remembers Mikasa calling her fiancé. She's wearing his coat.

He wonders if it truly keeps her warm.

"Um…" Eren feigns a cough. It takes a lot of courage, but he musters up just enough to ask her, "Do you want me to walk you back?"

This makes her figure perk up instantly.

For a second, the startled circles of her eyes carol with excitement. But just as quickly, her visage darkens and her gaze sinks low. "No, no, Eren, I—"

"It wouldn't be a problem."

"No, I can just get a taxi or something, it's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I've—" Her fingers rummage through the contents of her purse. It's a mere three seconds before her features fall disappointingly and she sighs, "Or not."

"What's wrong?"

"I left my wallet."

"Oh-ho, shit," he chuckles, and smiles at how she squeezes her eyes shut, thumping a fist softly on her forehead.

"God. I'm such an idiot." He wants to laugh, to tell her_ no you're not_, but what's the point of even carrying a purse if you're not going to take your wallet?

"Mikasa." She opens her eyes at the sound of her name. "Let me walk you back."

"Eren, no. It's Christmas. Go back to your party. Have fun. I…" her mouth twists with something sour, brows furrowing heavily enough for the crease in between them to pop out. "I shouldn't even be here."

"Here's the thing," Eren shrugs, biting the inside of his cheek, and Mikasa could spend hours deciding what it is that makes him look so different tonight, map out exactly what's changed since the time she last saw him.

His hair's pulled back and his stubble's gone and suddenly now she has to ease the springs she's wound up so tightly, loosen the taut grip of her own perception of reality. She questions (for the umpteenth time, really) if it's truly him, if it's not just the dying embers of her mind smoldering with the phantom smoke of her memories. But his image is warm and fuzzy and real before her, and as he takes a step, two, three forward, his eyes glow: blue, green, and gold—she counts the colors, whispers them intimately in her heart.

His voice is deep, the voice she remembers, the trickle of soothing warmth that travels down her spine and lathers her insides with something so direly relieving she feels the need to bask in it. This time, she allows herself to wallow, and even closes her eyes to the sound of him, to the only music she can hear—the only music she _wants_ to hear, quite frankly.

"I could just go back in there and act like I didn't see you tonight and get drunk off my ass and genuinely forget I ever even saw you," he husks, shrugging again. "Except that I can't do that now, because I saw you, and you're all on your own in this big-ass city wearing a fucking dress and heels that look like they'll get caught in the first grater you step on. So, really, this is just me being selfish so that, you know, my conscience doesn't kill me tonight when I go to bed and wonder if you got jumped on your way back or something."

Despite herself, Mikasa laughs. "Oh."

"Yeah, so… please. Let me walk you. Unless you're planning on walking around some more?"

"No, I'm… I'm starting to feel the cold now."

"Yeah, me too," he shivers, but doesn't move. The winter breathes around them, and for an inhale, something thaws within the girl, cracking ice melting to reveal a series of questions:

_Why is it that every time you're feeling low, you manage to run into Eren?_

Her eyes roll up to him. He's not looking at her. She blinks at the silence, but it's not awkward or uncomfortable. It's somber. Plain. Frozen in time. Painted in the air.

_And why is it that he's always ready to receive you? _

Eren always knows what to do, she's got to give him that. He's always quick to read her, figure out what it is she needs. And how? And why? And for how long will he continue to do it so patiently, so kindly? Stopping his life for her?

_And why is it that when you're lost, he's the one you (willingly or not) end up going to?_

Why? Why? So many why's and not a single explanation.

He shivers again, and this time it's more of a mild twitch, reminiscent of the jolts that had shattered his body last time she saw him after he'd drank too much coffee. She snorts quietly, allowing that pesky strand of hair that keeps falling over her face to slip out and dangle over her eyes. They both wear their hairs up in ponytails and sport unruly locks of hair and hide their hands inside their pockets and they both are caught off guard when Mikasa says, "Get your coat, Eren."

He lights up. Like a child, his eyes go happy and wide and he gasps, "So I'm walking you?"

"Sure."

"Sweet!" Dimple. Blue, green, gold. Shimmer. A swift turn on his heels and, "Alright, come on." Whoa, wait, what? Come on where?

Eren's quick to trot up to the main door of his apartment building, but Mikasa's feet take just four reluctant steps before she balks at the bottom of the stairs. He seems to sense her hesitation, turning to face her with his hand curled around the doorknob, cold air slipping into the building from the open door. For a beat, they just look at one another: Eren's eyes shining down at her, Mikasa's staring warily back up at him.

"Come on in," he prompts quietly, sweeping a hand towards the door to encourage her. "You can get warm inside."

"Eren, no," she whispers, balling a hand against her chest. There's fear in her eyes, and he doesn't understand it. "That's a terrible idea."

He frowns. "Why?"

"Because you're in a party and they're your friends and I don't want to intrude—I'm already being a nuisance enough as it is."

"No, you're not" he scoffs, frowning deeper. "Come on, there's heat inside."

"Eren—"

"Yes?"

"I shouldn't."

His lips press together in a thin line. He sighs, shoulders dropping, and there's a worn, tired sound to his groan when he shuts the door and comes down the steps to stand in front of her. "You know, I've realized two things in the short amount of time since we ran into each other," he says, his figure occupying the pupils of her eyes as she peers up at him in mild shock. "Do you wanna know what they are?"

Mikasa's quiet for a moment, blinking. He's huge from where he stands now, way too fucking tall and she's way too fucking tiny and he's only an entire step taller than her (plus what he already is). His hands are back inside his pockets and he shivers again but doesn't make for the door, instead, holds out a finger and says, "Number one: you suck at dressing appropriately for the weather," then holds out another. "And two: I don't know why or what it is, but every time I look at you you look like you're running for your life."

Mikasa's eyes wince at his words. She's sturdy, standing tall despite their height difference, tightening her jaw and squinting up at him. "Is that all?"

"No. Another thing is, you're always cold. And scared. And you keep showing up at the most random times, Mikasa. Like you've fallen down from heaven or something and landed on my face."

A breath: "I'm sorry."

Eren grunts, throwing his head back in agony. "And you apologize about _everything._ God, it makes me so fucking angry. Like, I wanna punch something in the face."

"You always wanna punch something in the face."

"That's not the point."

"Then what _is_ the point?"

They blink at one another for a moment, and Mikasa's face is so unreadable it causes something within him to crack. She's not exactly being defensive, but she's pretty clear on where she draws the line, and he knows—they both know—that he's teetering pretty damn close to it.

Even more so, Eren swallows and allows himself to sigh dramatically, to look pointlessly to the side because his gaze will inevitably come back to her (it always does). And when he looks at her again, she's such a fucking stranger with her lipstick and her makeup and her dress and that coat and her heels but then she's also the only thing in his life he can truly recognize, recalling those eyes and that hair and those lips and that scar and that serious fucking look she's fixing him with. And he wants so bad to reach out, to act upon the surge of glory billowing inside him and pull her up a step and kiss her, grab her face and let her taste the words he cannot bring himself to say. And it's Christmas today and six years ago this day, she left him. Six years ago this day, she held him and loved him and fucked him and promised she would always be with him and now look at where they are and look at how she looks at him and how he looks at her and maybe if circumstances were different they would be able to pick up where they left off, resume the sentences that were cut short so abruptly and make passionate love like in those cheesy romantic movies they both loathe so much and she's wearing this weird ass dress and another man's coat but in this ideal world Eren has fathomed she wears her own clothes and she runs into his arms and says nothing, lets her body say it all. And how nice it would be to have this sort of cruel reunion, to have her on the very date she broke his heart and let her mend him back together again, word for word, piece by piece, promise after promise. And he can see her shins and half her legs and envision the contours of her body, how the hollows and the shadows would feel like pressed against his skin and maybe this fiancé of hers really _does_ love her, maybe he yearns for her the way Eren does but something tells him that no, _no he doesn't_ , that the grip she's got on him isn't as painful or as tight and it's not fair because he's the only man she does this to and she's the only woman who does this to him and _fuck,_ how he aches to touch her and he has to fight the urge every second that she's near as if his blood were made of iron and her bones were made of magnets. And in this perfect, ideal world where they meet again, Mikasa's not about to get married, instead she's happy and she's free and not this thin and Eren would know because he'd take her to his room and watch the garments disappear and see her chest stutter, her eyelids flutter, the momentum build, build, build, and there'd be no gap between her thighs and no protruding rib cage, only her fullness and her curves and the chiseled silhouette of a dancer, not a girl, not this pale, trembling woman that sighs her worries into the air as they garner into thin, ephemeral smoke that vanishes as quickly as his self-control does. And he wants so bad to beg _please don't change, please don't change too much 'cause I can't bear it, I can't take it, I can't even look at you in the face because it kills me, you make me stupid, you turn me raw _but that is selfish and inappropriate even though Eren is really good at being both.

So he sighs, and looks pointlessly to the side, and looks helplessly right back at her and admits, "Actually, I think I lost it," and the fucking leap his heart takes when her severity breaks and she smiles—you wouldn't believe how she smiles at him. It's unnatural, magical, surreal. Winded, he finds himself dizzy and out of breath and it takes him a moment to recollect himself, to wipe his mouth with the edge of his wrist and rip away from her, trot back up the steps and pretend not to feel her gaze sticking to his back, burning through his shirt and singeing him all the way through to the bone—pretend, pretend, pretend. Vulnerable and inappropriate and ever-so-selfish, he soothes himself by reminding: _I was there first. I taught her how to fight and live and love herself. She's the woman that she is because of me._ And he knows—he fucking _knows_—that everything he is, ever has been, and ever will be, he owes to her. To this stranger. To this drifter. To this speck of light among a plane of ash.

"Welp, you can stay out here if you want, but I might be a while," Eren murmurs, scratching his right eyebrow with his thumb and praying that he doesn't sound as tired as he suddenly feels. It's times like these that he wishes more than anything that his heart wasn't so exuberant, that emotions didn't palpitate so brilliantly within him and bleed out so candidly the way they do. He should be careful, he should be stronger. But he is a man and he is broken and he is, despite everything, sensitive and small. He's not like Mikasa. He doesn't know how not to show, how not to feel everything all at once and let it choke him. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, he hopes to come back as something disconnected from everything, so far out of reach, like a star. And he hopes that his little light would flicker a bit more brilliantly, a tad bit greater than all the other flickers in the sky. And that eyes will gaze upon him and recount his petty human life, this life, and decide that it was more than this sad, feeble gush that oozes and leaks and is such a horrible, godawful mess he can't even take a hold of. He hopes, despite everything, despite Mikasa. He hopes, he hopes, he hopes.

But he can't even hear himself talking anymore.

"Everyone's shit-faced so they'll probably give me a hard time for leaving." His hand's already halfway to curling around the doorknob again when he hears her:

"Who's there? At the party?"

Eren's quiet for a moment, absorbing what she's just said. There's a hint of possibility, a tinge of promise in her voice. Afraid to spook it away, his tone is gentle and inviting, the offering hand that lures the famished soul. "Just a couple of people. You can come meet 'em if you want. Unless you've got your own friends to go back to, then I'll try to be quick—"

"That sounds great."

He turns to gape at her. "Really?!"

"Yes!" and he'd be ashamed of how excited he just sounded if it wasn't for the fact that her own voice is just as tight as his. "I'd love to meet them," she coos, the words mingling in the wind around him and blowing that strand of hair that now sticks to his parted lips. "Your friends."

He can feel the smile ripping his mouth apart, stretching his demeanor terribly thin. He clears his throat, making a show of being a lot less ecstatic than what he is and shrugging, "Alright. Well, let's go before my ass freezes shut."

Mikasa wrinkles her little nose. It's pink, still. "That's disgusting."

Eren smirks, "I'm starting to feel it."

"Eren, gross," she giggles, and he grins because God, how he loves her laugh. He feels his chest expanding, making room for the burgeoning elation of his heart.

"Come on, come on, come on," he urges, shivering from the cold. Mikasa's heels knock on the steps and she makes her way up as quickly as she can manage without tripping. And when she stands beside him, when she's close enough for them to share breaths, and scents, and smiles and colors, Eren opens the door leading to his future with his past standing by his side, bowing slightly and stepping out of her way to grin, "Your highness."

Mikasa smiles brightly at his invitation, tipping her head down in thanks. And if only he could record that very quirk of her lips and his own reflection in her eyes and how that stray lock of hair strokes her jawbone and engrave it all into his mind so that someday in the future he might recall the exact moment in which he deemed himself the luckiest man in the world tonight. It's a blessing that the stars arrange the way they do, that fate or destiny or whatever people like to blame life's happenings on has brought them together again. And he doesn't question. Only thanks. He offers his gratitude to the sky and moon and stars and everything else that carries the godly whisper of creation, whatever it is that gathered all the colors of the world and painted this masterpiece: her smile when she talks to him, the beauty in her eyes when a playful spark lights between them and—

"Why, thank you, peasant. You are most kind."

"Okay, you know what?"

She shrieks when he threatens to slam the door shut in her face.

**—o—**

A torrent of drunken shouts floods them the second Eren opens Hitch's apartment door.

"Ay, Eren's back!"

"Ay!"

"AYYYY!"

"AYYYYYYY!"

"My_ amigo_!"

"Eren, you fucking shit lord I missed your ugly face!"

Mikasa follows meekly behind him, eyes trained on the clothed muscles of his back, the little hairs that fall out of his ponytail and curve against the nape of his neck. She could count them if she wanted to, add them to her list of things she's finding different in him tonight. But the sudden anxiety of facing so many people, so many drunken, happy people all at once (and all over again) slaps her thoughts away.

"Guys, chill," Eren drones, and a mere second after he has spoken, another deluge of greetings comes galloping their way:

"Ay! The Jaeger-nator!"

"_La cucaracha machata!_"

"That makes no sense, Thomas."

"Wut."

"My papaya fucker!"

"AYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

"WOOT WOOT!"

"God." Eren huffs, but he's smiling. He steps aside to allow Mikasa to come forward, sensing her hesitation the moment their eyes meet. His gaze is reassuring; it pulls her forth. Back when she was crossing the threshold into his apartment, it had been a ghost-like murmur that'd pushed her on. Tonight, it's Eren who grants her the courage.

There's more drunken banter that they ignore because suddenly, Hitch materializes beside them with a Red Bull in her hands, seizing their attention. Her perfume is something strong and unrecognizable. Eren seems to smell it too, for his head turns in sync with Mikasa's to peer at the woman closing in from their right.

Her amber-green eyes are slow and sleepy, clinging to the floor before rolling up to them—and it's as if Mikasa doesn't even exist. She looks right through her and to the man standing by her side.

"Eren," she chippers, a catty smile humoring her peachy lips. Standing this close to them, with her hair hanging down in wispy coils at the ends and her irises glinting all soft and hazel, Mikasa can see that she's a lot prettier than what she'd previously made her out to be. (But then again, a man's dress shirt and a whole lot of hickeys plus crazy after-sex hair doesn't exactly complement everyone, now does it?) The clothes she wears tonight seem to be made of liquid and drip around her feline curves: jeans so tight they've been painted on her legs, a plain black tank top clinging to her torso and rucking up at her hips to expose the skin below her naval and crease around her narrow waist. A simple necklace circumscribes her thin neck, and there's no hickeys there tonight—at least, none that Mikasa can see—but the faint bruise that peeks out at the top of her right breast is enough to raise some eyebrows (and did Eren do that?).

When she speaks again, her voice is as sharp as Mikasa remembers it to be, high-pitched and full of itself but at the same time _purring _rather than talking. Words vibrate on her tongue almost sweetly, but with a tinge of venom dappled here and there. "What the hell took you so— Oh." Finally, she notices her.

The whole damn apartment does, in fact.

"Damn," someone breathes. The entire place goes silent, save for the music that plays in the background and the sound effects coming from the TV. All heads are turned Mikasa's way, and she feels like crawling into her own skin to shield herself from their piercing stares. Nobody says anything for what feels like a horrendously long time—even Eren goes quiet, his attention pinned solely unto to her. It's only when Hitch quirks one of her neatly groomed eyebrows and somebody coughs that the silence shatters.

"_Muy caliente,_" a blonde male with strong sideburns croons. Mikasa frowns, turning to Eren.

"What did he just say?" she whispers. Teal-green eyes cringe.

"He's— Ignore him."

"Well, well. Look who's here," Hitch mewls suddenly, her fiery gaze scrutinizing her, and Mikasa can't help but feel like an animal trapped under her paw, dwindling in strength until she's nothing but a feeble, writhing critter squirming above the open, fanged maw of a lion. Hitch is, by all means, a very intimidating creature. Her eyes, although sleepy and a little stoned, are damn right fierce. Confident. Self-assured. Her beauty and severity is what makes her the type of woman that is even scarier up close. Enthralling, maybe, but still pretty fucking scary. "Did you find her standing outside your door again, Eren?"

He fixes her with a rather blatant glare, choosing to ignore her comment and introduce them.

"Mikasa, Hitch. Hitch, Mikasa."

"Oh, I remember her," the cat-like smile purrs, but not kindly. Her eyes flit over every physical aspect of Mikasa, sizing her up.

"Nice to meet you," she says, extending a hand out in greeting. Hitch just stares at it for a moment, tracing the length of her fingers and the rock on her engagement ring before smirking up at Eren, telling him something through her eyes that he seems to catch by the way his jawbone throbs with annoyance.

"I bet," is all she answers with, and she's about to open her mouth to say more when a tall, tanned brunette appears behind her and smacks her ass with a sharp _thwap_. Hitch jumps, exclaiming in surprise, glowering at the woman as she throws an arm around her shoulders and smiles at Mikasa through a sip of her Heineken beer.

"Don't mind her," the woman tells her, swaying forth a bit. Freckles dot her cheeks and nose beneath the pink flush of intoxication. She, too, is beautiful, but in a way that differs greatly from Hitch. "She's just sour because you're prettier than her and 'cause her name rhymes with _bitch_—which you are, by the way."

"Go choke on a dick."

"No, thanks. Lesbian, remember?" She points a finger at Hitch's eye-rolling, leaning in even more to whisper, "She's an angry drunk."

"So are you," Eren scoffs, which earns him a punch on the shoulder.

"Hey, fuck you, Jaeger!" the angry drunk wails, slurring her words a bit. "So! Are you going to introduce us or am I gonna have to do it myself?"

The sigh that leaves Eren's mouth is short. He flits a hand between them, sweeping it back and forth with each exchange of names. "Ymir, this is Mikasa. Mikasa, Ymir."

"Nice to meet you," the raven-haired girl smiles, extending her hand again. This time, the gesture is reciprocated when Ymir takes it in her own, and her grip is callused and strong. She has the hands of someone who's fought hard in life.

"The pleasure's mine, sugar tits," Ymir smirks, and Eren doesn't bother to stifle his pained groan. Before Mikasa's eyes can fully widen at her choice of words, Hitch slaps the back of her hand on Ymir's chest—missing her boob by mere centimeters.

"Alright, freckles. Help me pour these drinks."

And then they disappear.

In a somewhat stunned silence, Eren and Mikasa watch as the girls make their way into the kitchen. "Sugar tits?" Mikasa says under her breath. Eren literally face-palms.

"God, I'm sorry," he grimaces, rubbing his hand down the side of his face to the back of his neck. "Ymir's a little… _too_ friendly when she's drunk. She's not like this when she's sober, though, I promise. Complete opposite, really."

"Is everyone drunk in here?" she asks quietly, blowing a strand of hair off her face.

"Looks like it," Eren smiles, reveling in the cute, pert shape of her mouth as she puffs to blow on the stand again, having failed the first time. With a gossamer (very, very gossamer) hand at Mikasa's back, he guides her further into the apartment, careful not to touch her for longer than a breath. He sees her eyes scanning her surroundings, absorbing what they see.

Hitch stares at them from inside her kitchen, where she occupies herself with mixing drinks and pouring shots. _Nice, Fabio,_ she mouths to him, wearing one of her evil, sarky grins. Eren promptly reminds her to _fuck off_.

Mikasa doesn't notice their little exchange, too busy admiring the place. Hitch's apartment is slightly bigger than Eren's, but this may as well be due to the fact that hers is not as cluttered and lined with unnecessary junk. The walls are soft and peachy, the curtains on the windows a pristine white color that matches most of the furnishing—even the damn Christmas tree at the corner of the room is white save for its pink and golden adornments. The place is neat and intricate, feminine in both appearance and smell. The mixing scents of perfume and candles loiter in the air, caressing her senses. Where Eren's apartment had mismatched furniture and dust and piles among piles of books, Hitch's place has Christmas lights and polished floors and vacuumed carpets and—oh, look at that, she's got a cat.

"Ow!" Eren exclaims suddenly, starting when something hits him at the back of the head. He turns to complain but Hitch's shout comes quicker.

"Hey! No ball throwing in my apartment, fuckwad!"

"Sorry, dude," a blonde male chuckles behind him, retrieving a foam football from the floor. "I swear I wasn't aiming at you." Eren gives him a look that says _yeah, right,_ but if he noticed it, he shows no sign. Straightening up, the stranger nods his head at Mikasa, his golden eyes burning into her with an exaggerated squint. She can't tell if he's drunk, but his ginormous frame makes her balk suddenly. Seriously, the guy is fucking _huge_. Even Eren looks small beside him. If he were to suddenly come toppling their way, he'd surely crush them.

He claps a heavy hand on Eren's shoulder, making him flinch. "Who's this?" he asks him, still staring at her.

The flippity hand motion thing again and, "Mikasa, Reiner. Reiner, Mikasa."

"Nice to meet—" she's cut short when Reiner snatches her outstretched hand and kisses it suddenly, causing both hers and Eren's eyes to flare wide. He moans loudly against her skin, which makes heat rise to her cheeks and Eren slap a hand over his face _again._

"Mmm, your hand's soft," he mumbles, inhaling deeply. His nostrils flare intensely and she feels his breath at the back of her hand. "And smells _so_ good, wow."

Eren hides his face behind his hands in embarrassment, sighing, "Jesus."

"Thank you," she manages, blinking at the hulk of a man. He winks an eye at her and goes away, much to Eren's satisfaction. Before she can comment on what just occurred, he points a finger to the rest of the people in the room and says their names loud enough for them to hear and greet her.

"That tall guy over there is Bertholdt."

"Heyo."

"Mina."

"Hiya!"

"Marlowe."

"Hello."

"Thomas."

"Hi_._"

"Rico."

"Hey."

"And that small girl you see over there—" he's interrupted by Mikasa's sudden gasp.

"Is that her?" she beams brightly, jumping slightly on her heels. Eren frowns at her, his mouth still open from where he'd failed to finish his words.

"Um. What?"

"You know..." Mikasa breathes, honeyed words pouring from her mouth sweetly. Eren frowns even deeper at the way her eyes start to glow. "Her?" She cups the side of her mouth as if she were telling him a secret. "Short? Blonde hair? Blue eyes?"

He raises a brow, the cogs in his brain whirring. "Uh..." But he has no idea what the fuck she's talking about. _Her _who? Who's short and blonde and has— "Oh! No, no. Annie's not here right now."

He's surprised to see Mikasa's face fall disappointingly.

"Poop."

"Anyway," he says slowly, clearing his throat. "That's Historia, but everyone calls her Christa because—"

"It's her hooker name!"

Whoever shouted that didn't faze the girl in the slightest. She kneels up from her place on the large sofa, holding out a hand in greeting and smiling so widely Mikasa feels a little bereft of air. The girl is _stunning_. Like, cover of a fashion magazine stunning. Her eyes are large and blue and her blonde hair falls just past her shoulders, half of it pinned back in neat little braids. Her nose is tiny, as is her mouth—as is her hand too. Actually, everything about this girl, save for her eyes and smile, is small. She looks like a miniature Disney princess. Mikasa wouldn't be surprised if birds started popping out of the furniture to dance around her whilst she randomly burst into song.

"Nice to meet you, Mikasa," she says, with an angelical voice to match her ethereal appearance. "On behalf of all of us here, I apologize for anything inappropriate you may hear tonight." She smiles widely at Eren, who smiles back. Dark eyes flit between them for a moment, studying the mutual respect they seem to share. She's about to reply when the girl gasps suddenly, leaning forward to peer down Mikasa's legs. "Wow, I love your heels! Prada?"

"Thank you. Ah, Gucci."

"Aw, shoot. So close."

"Wow, Eren," Rico says, looking at the three of them over the rim of her glasses. "Look at you. So you do talk to pretty girls after all."

"Please ignore every single person in this room while I go get my coat," he tells Mikasa with a sigh. She almost feels bad for smiling, because she's slightly enjoying all the teasing he's receiving from his friends. It's funny to see Eren grow exasperated from all their playful jabbing. He taps his hand on the small blonde's shoulder as if telling her to keep an eye on their new guest. "I'll be right back."

And then suddenly Mikasa wants to insist, to beg him not to go. _Take me with you. Don't leave me alone._ But he goes and she's left behind to fend for herself in this apartment full of people she's not acquainted with (and who still spare her the occasional clandestine stare that she_ always_ notices) and she tenses uncomfortably but the ethereal, lyrical voice beside her is welcoming and warm.

"So how do you two know each other?" Historia (or Christa?) queries once they're alone.

For a moment, Mikasa's silent as she weighs the question in her mind. What should she answer to that? What would _Eren_ want her to answer to that? She can't be completely honest, can she? She can't say _well, we're exes and he was kinda sorta the love of my life until we fell our separate ways and now I'm engaged but here I am 'cos I can't stand being near my fiancé's friends 'cause they freak me out hahahahahHAHA! How funny, yeah!?_

"We're childhood friends," she settles, which is truth enough.

"Oh, really?" Historia frowns, (not really the reaction she was anticipating). "Wow, he's never mentioned you."

Mikasa's surprised to find herself slightly offended by this. Really? Eren's never mentioned her? Despite the gigantic chunk of history they share? _Never_? But then again, it's not like she has any right to feel this way. What they claim in each other's lives isn't exactly the easiest thing to talk about—and by all means, it's not like she's ever really told anyone about him. Not even Jean knows about Eren. Not even Jean knows…

Historia must've seen something in her expression, for she quickly follows up her previous comment with, "I mean, he never really talks much about his past, though, so don't take it personally. He just kinda brushes it off and says he'll tell us someday. Never has."

"That's understandable." Mikasa pulls Jean's coat tighter around her body. She misses her scarf, the red one, suddenly realizing how naked she feels without it. In a lot of ways, it's sort of her safety blanket. There's nothing for her to obscure her face behind, nothing to shield her from the way Hitch's eyes stare daggers into her skin through the armor of her fiancé's coat.

It's a few more seconds before she realizes Historia is still talking.

"…and he's always lost in those books of his, so it's a miracle if we even get to see him at all these day. He sort of just disappears into that world of his and doesn't come back out for weeks at a time. Months even."

Mikasa frowns, blowing the strand of hair off her face after it falls over her eyes again. "Lost in his books?" she queries, trying not to sound as genuinely surprised as she is. Historia's grin to that is mesmerizing.

"Oh, yeah. That's all he does, you know. Read."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"Well, it's just… He hated reading when we were younger."

"Wha-hat? No way!"

"Yeah," Mikasa smiles softly, recalling little Eren with his crazy hair and lively personality and the dirty soccer ball he always carried around. "He detested reading. Especially after screwing up his vision in that one fight back in high school. Reading glasses just made everything even worse."

"A fight?" Historia squeaks, her ocean blue eyes enlarging. "Eren needs reading glasses because of a _fight_?"

"Mhm."

"You see?" she groans, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "He never tells us this stuff. I just thought he's always had crappy vision!"

"Nope." Mikasa' eyes survey the apartment, looking for Eren but finding no trace of him_. Where the heck is he? _"Not him."

"Dang" the blonde whispers to herself, snapping her fingers. "Good to know."

Despite how cute Historia is, and how welcome she makes her feel, Mikasa sighs sadly. Without Eren beside her, she feels horribly out of place, like an intruder. But, to be frank, it's not nearly as bad as being at that other party with Jean. At least here, the only things making her feel alienated are her obviously contrasting attire to the rest of the people's clothes, and Hitch's blatant staring.

For a moment, Mikasa wonders if Hitch just doesn't like her. She hasn't really given her any reason not to, but she's dealt with people long enough to know that they don't always require a reason for their scorn. Some people wear hate like a second skin. It comes naturally to them, and their targets are picked out at random, just because it's the type of people that _they_ are. But _does_ she dislike her? And if she does, why does Mikasa feel that this would sadden her? She genuinely wants Hitch to approve of her. But why? Because she knows what she is to Eren? Because Hitch liking her may be the equivalent of everybody else accepting her too?

Her thoughts are cut short by Ymir's sudden screaming.

"Babe!" It seems to be directed at Historia, who jumps and holds a hand to her chest. "Watch me make a jäger bomb for the Jaeger Bomb!"

"I'm not drinking right now!" the Jaeger Bomb calls from somewhere in the apartment. Mikasa's ears perk up at the sound of his voice.

"What?!" Ymir cries, sagging her shoulders. "Why?"

Eren goes out of one room to enter another. Before going into what looks like Hitch's bedroom (oh boy), he pauses at the door and says, "I have to uh… go somewhere."

"Where?!"

He vanishes.

"_Somewhere!_"

Ymir's eyes twitch. Like, literally, they fucking twitch and she slams her fists on the counter top, hollering, "You fucking turd stuffer, how could you leave me like this?!"

"Ymir, lower your voice," Hitch says, smacking her arm. "The whole damn city can hear you."

"Like I said," Historia sighs sadly, "I apologize on behalf of everyone in this room. I promise we're all a lot more amiable when we're sober. Except, well, maybe Hitch."

"That's okay."

And then there's an awkward silence. It expands, and expands, and expands, lasting a few seconds (or minutes?) and making Mikasa fidget, uncomfortable. She's never really been good with conversation. As in, she just straight up friggin' sucks. What do you do when there seems to be nothing more to say? Leave? Excuse yourself to go to the bathroom? Start laughing manically out of nowhere so that you scare the shit out of people and they go away?

"So how did…" she starts, clearing her throat when her voice catches, "you two… meet?"

Historia's eyes glimmer happily. "You mean, how did Eren and I meet?" She smiles when Mikasa nods her head. "Well, he trains with my girlfriend, Ymir, the loud one over there. I met him through her a few years back. They do all sorts of martial arts stuff that I know hoot about. He works there, too, at this gigantic gym place or something. Teaches little kids."

Eren? Teaching kids?

Eren Jaeger, a _teacher?_

A raven eyebrow quirks up ironically. "Oh?"

"Yup! He's so sweet to them, it's the cutest thing ever. You should see how they all follow him around and call him Sensei. Most of the people here know him from that place, I think. Others, he met at his other job, probably. Like Rico. I think she's like his boss or something, I dunno."

"What's his other job?"

"Dang, he hasn't told you all this? He works in the space department at a museum. Something to do with the stars."

Mikasa feels a little flutter in her chest, the silent wing beats of a butterfly.

"The stars?" She can hear how breathless she is in her own voice. "Really?"

"Mhm. He's into all that astrological stuff. Keeps his mind busy, I guess."

"…Wow."

Eren and the stars, huh. It makes sense, but at the same time it kinda doesn't. Stars were always Armin's thing growing up. Eren would always moan and protest whenever he'd force them to lay down on their backyards to stargaze, and he always did it at sleepovers because Eren and Mikasa's houses were "the closest to the sky," which really only meant that they were propped up on a hill, but whatever. And how nice those memories are. She can almost envision Armin lying beside her, ripping grass from soil and pointing out this constellation and that, eyes twinkling as he went on and on about "the outside world." Eventually, Eren's moans ceased and he listened in on all the information, even matching his own enthusiasm at one point. And now he works in the space department at a museum. Armin would bust a gut laughing if he ever found out—that, or cry his eyes out. Both, probably. Yeah, knowing Armin, he'd probably do both.

Historia starts talking again.

"So are you staying here tonight, or…?"

"Oh, no. I'm going back to my own party. Eren's walking me there."

"He is?"

"Yeah. I went for a walk and got lost and then we sort of ran into each other, so…"

"Ah, so he's helping you find your way back."

"Mhm."

"Sounds like him."

"I'm surprised he hasn't tried to nail you yet," Ymir murmurs when she appear beside them, leaning on the sofa beside the flustered blonde, who's clearly perturbed by her shirtless state.

She's got a sports bra on, at least, and muscles that make Mikasa's heart sigh with envy. Once upon a time, her own body had looked that good: arms lean and strong, abs that could cut a man's hands and make him bleed to death. But now…. Well, now she's all bones and skin and shrunken boobs and a whole lot o' sadness. Ymir's tanned skin emits a healthy glow that is as bright as the redness that boils in the small girl's pallid cheeks as she wails, "Ymir!"

The freckled goddess smirks. "What? It's true."

"Don't pay attention to her," Historia whispers to Mikasa, leaning close to her—and she smells so sweet, like cotton candy. "Eren's a good man."

Ymir, with her crazy hair that's even crazier than Eren's and her glorious abs and her freckled face barks out a laugh—having heard them, apparently.

"When he's not sticking his dick inside anything with _boobs_," she chortles, swigging back some more of her beer.

"Lovely," Mikasa mutters, casting her gaze to the side. Historia squeezes Ymir's bicep, and call her crazy, but Mikasa thinks she sees her flex it in the small girl's grasp.

"Stop it," the Disney princess scolds. "Also, where the crud is your shirt?"

Taking another sip of her beer (and flexing again, dear Jesus), Ymir runs a hand through her disheveled hair and shrugs. "I got hot."

"Hitch!" the one who sticks his dick inside anything with _boobs_ calls out from inside her bedroom.

Hitch looks up from her drinks, sniffling. "What?"

"Where's my coat?!"

"In the closet, dumbass."

"THE WHAT!"

"THE CLOSET!"

"Which one?!"

"The walk-in one."

"The_ WHAT!?_"

"_EREN!_"

The place goes quieter for a second, until a muffled thud echoes through the floor and then a loud, cracking squawk of, "I can't find it!" echoes even louder.

Hitch groans and pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing so heavily her chest sinks. "Oh, my fucking God. I'm gonna hit him."

"I'll go help," says Marlowe, rising to his feet.

"Help meeeeeee!" Eren cries. There's more thuds. Hitch cups her hands on either side of her mouth to shout at him.

"Marlowe's on his way!"

"Hah?!"

"MARLOWE! IS ON! HIS WAY!"

"WHAT!?"

"_SHUT UP!_"

Historia giggles loudly, throwing her head back before covering her mouth. Even Ymir seems amused, a grin splitting her mouth in half.

"God. Those two are always screaming at each other," the small girl twitters, shaking her head. "They're both so hot-headed; it's so funny."

Mikasa can't help a small snicker of her own. "They seem close," she says, fitting her hands into Jean's coat's pockets. She finds a little candy wrapper inside. She thinks of him.

Historia's voice brings her back.

"They fight like a married couple, but they've always got each other's backs."

"Yeah, well, Eren fights with, like, _everyone,_" Ymir remarks. Historia rolls her eyes at her.

"That's not true. He's always a sweetie to me."

At that, Ymir grabs hold of her small chin and grips it firmly so that the girl can't move when she leans in to smooch her hard on the lips and coo, "That's because you're the cutest thing in the world, baby."

"Bleugh," Mina grimaces nearby, shielding her eyes from their PDA. Mikasa smiles softly. She likes those two. They're unlike anyone she's met before and the fact that they're both so different, and a _couple_, and Eren's friends, makes Mikasa's chest fill with a nice, warm feeling. She's only just met them but they've pulled more smiles out of her than all of Jean's friends ever have_ combined._

"So if you're childhood friends, how come we're only meeting you now?" Historia asks her after wiping her mouth on her shirtsleeve. Her attitude towards Ymir is dismissive, but Mikasa notices the blush that darkens on her cheeks.

"I just moved here recently."

"Oh, wow. What compelled you to do that?"

"My fiancé."

"Ooh!"

"Damn."

"So let's see it."

"See what?"

"The ring, silly!"

"Oh."

So she lets them see it.

And their eyes practically pop out of their heads.

"Oh my—" Historia gasps softly, holding a hand to her heart. "Holy—"

"What the fuck?" Ymir frowns, blinking profusely. "Are you engaged to the duke of England?!"

Mikasa smirks. "Hardly."

"That thing must've cost your fiancé an arm and a leg!"

"I'm~telling~you," Ymir sings under her breath, "Eren's gonna try to tap that."

This annoys Historia greatly.

"She's engaged, Ymir Elizabeth." Oh, damn. Middle name and everything.

"That hasn't stopped him before," she snorts. Historia pinches her freckled shoulder.

"Can you not? Please?"

"It's not like that," says Mikasa, looking around. Hitch isn't staring at her anymore, rather occupied with mixing drinks and munching on some cookies.

"Yeah. So show some respect, will you?"

Ymir's mouth explodes open suddenly. "I'M DRUNK A.F.! What the fuck _is_ respect? Can I eat it? Can I stick it up Reiner's butt?"

"Christa, calm your girlfriend, please," crows Reiner from his place on the floor (and why is he just chilling there?).

"I'm trying!"

"Hey, yo, Mufasa. You want a shot?"

It takes thirty whole seconds before Mikasa realizes they're talking to her.

**—o—**

**The following conversation goes as follows:**

Mikasa, indeed not Mufasa: "Um, it's Mikasa. And no, thanks. I don't drink."

Ymir: "Boo."

Mina: "How old are you?"

Mikasa: "Twenty-five."

Thomas: "So you're old enough to drink. Why don't you do it?"

Mikasa: "Never really appealed to me, I suppose."

Ymir: "Wow. You talk so proper. Good shit."

Historia: "Ugh. Ymir."

Rico: "And what are you?"

Mikasa: "I'm sorry?"

Rico: "Your ethnicity. You look exotic."

Mikasa: "Oh. I'm half Japanese."

Thomas: "Oh, damn. _Konnichiwa_."

Reiner, still on the floor: "And the other half?"

Bertholdt, the tall one over there: "Reiner, you can't just ask people what their other half is."

Reiner: "Why not?"

Historia: "It's rude."

Reiner: "How in the fuck?"

Ymir: "Listen, blondie pecks. Fuck you."

Reiner: "What did I do!?"

Hitch: "Ymir. I need you."

Ymir, going to where she's needed: "Don't you always?"

Hitch: "Chrissy, calm your girlfriend, please."

Historia: "I've been trying to!"

Mina: "Where's Eren?"

Thomas: "Fucking Marlowe, probably."

Ymir: "Okay, not everyone is a flaming homo like you, Tom."

Thomas: "Ha! Says the angry lesbian."

Ymir, clearly quite angry: "I AM NOT ANGRY!"

Hitch: "Ymir. My eardrums."

Ymir: "Hey! Mufasa! Go check on papaya fucker!"

Mikasa: "Who?"

Historia: "It's a nickname of Eren's. Please don't ask why."

Mina: "He has a fruit fetish."

Mikasa: "He _what?_"

Bertholdt: "Oh, no."

Rico: "Here we go."

Mina: "A fruit fetish!"

Thomas: "Apples, pears, bananas. You name it. He'll fuck it all."

Historia: "Don't listen to them. That's not true."

Mina: "Papayas are his favorite!"

Ymir: "Hole in the papaya!"

Everyone, except Mikasa and Historia: "Hole in the papaya!"

Eren: "I hate every single one of you."

**—o—**

Oh, thank Jesus Christ in heaven Eren's back.

Mikasa almost wants to collapse into his arms and let him whisk her away from everyone, gasping at the relief of having him beside her again. He smells so good, and looks so nice with his coat on and his hair in that ponytail and his shaven face and she missed him the whole ten minutes he was gone the same way she misses her red scarf and she's so ready to get out of here, as is he, but before making for their egress, he paws at his coat and jean pockets and curses. "Shit, wait. Hitch."

She looks up at him, her expression flat. "What."

"My keys." His keys are removed from one of her pockets and hurled across the room and into Eren's hands. "Thanks. Okay, everyone say goodbye to Mikasa."

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

"_Sayonara, _sugar tits!"

"Ymir, Jesus Christ."

"Oh please, do come back, Mia," Hitch smiles, perching her chin atop the palm of her hand. Eren trots over to steal a doughnut from the Dunkin Donuts box that sits on the counter where she stands, stuffing his face with a glazed one before correcting her—with his mouth full, no less.

"Her name's Mikasa. _Meeh-kah-sah_."

Hitch rolls her eyes at him. "Whoop-tee-doo."

Eren motions to the box of donuts in offering. Mikasa shakes her head, declining politely, and he literally scarfs the remainder of his snack in one bite. God. One of these days, he's gonna choke and have a horrible scare for his life.

"Yeah, Eren," someone says loudly, but Mikasa doesn't see who. "Bring her more often, she's hot!"

"Okay, we're out of here," he huffs, sucking the glaze off of the tips of his fingers.

Mikasa waves a shy hand at everyone. "Goodbye. It was nice meeting you all."

The room bursts with a chorus of "Bye, Mikasa!" and a single _Mufasa_ is thrown in there too, followed by cackling laughter.

"Don't take too long, titan dick!" Reiner shouts to Eren. "You've still got presents to open!"

With a gossamer hand (very, very gossamer) at her back, he leads Mikasa to the door, throwing over his shoulder: "I'll be quick!"

"Titan what?" she asks him, wondering if the nickname is directed at his personality or his… well, you know.

"It's an inside joke" he sighs, still chewing. He waits until he's done eating to say, "Please ignore my friends, they're all crazy."

"Historia seems nice."

"Yeah, well, she's about as normal as it gets."

The front door swings open and, lo and behold, a skinny brunette with a high ponytail and a green dress in a white coat Mikasa's seen barely an hour before appears in front of them. The woman jumps, nearly dropping the foam take-out container in her hands.

"Oh!" she gasps. "Lord, I was just about to knock."

"Sash!" Eren smiles, his face brightening up whilst Mikasa's slowly darkens. "I was looking for you!"

Sasha sighs, looking down at her feet. "Well, I'm here. Late, but I'm here. I brought food from the party and— Oh, my God."

Oh, my God indeed.

Her light brown eyes go wide with shock, features as rigid as the posture both her and Mikasa have simultaneously acquired. Her usually assertive voice is lost in a breath and—

"Mikasa?"

"Sasha Braus."

Eren frowns, puzzled. "You two know each other?"

"Uh…" Sasha's the one to say. "Yeah. I'm…" She closes her eyes, voice wavering. Mikasa would've said something. She would've said something if it wasn't for the fact that what quickly followed was the cold, ugly truth:

"I'm close friends with her fiancé."

Eren's jaw goes slack. "Oh shit," he breathes. Mikasa's heart seems to have forgotten how to beat properly. Her mouth works at speaking but no words come out. Her muscles work at moving but she remains still. Her mind whirls with increasing panic and all she can imagine is the look on Jean's face once Sasha tells him where she's found her. And she regrets everything. She regrets ever showing up. She regrets meeting Eren's friends and stumbling into Sasha and leaving her fiancé behind—she regrets adhering to the luring whispers of her heart, because look at where they've gotten her. Nothing good ever comes from following your heart. Because look at where it's gotten her. Look at this fucking mess.

Mikasa swallows thickly.

Sasha sinks her gaze away.

Eren stands frozen among the midst of it all.

And the only thing either of them can think is: _Oh shit indeed._


	10. Every Ugly Clam Has its Pearl

**A/N: **Originally, I wasn't going to update this fic until it gained more followers, but uh… yeah no. I literally wrote this in three days so a huge thank you to my lovely friend Emily (EmmaLeeBee) for editing this mess and making sure it was presentable. And with that, here's chapter ten. *jazz hands*

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _Every Ugly Clam Has its Pearl_ :.

.: Chapter X :.

* * *

As a child, Eren Jaeger had a peculiar anatomy.

His bones were made of steel, and thus they rarely ever broke or sprained despite the strain he always imposed on his body. They held him up, his skeleton the solid foundation that kept him going, moving—despite everything, despite mental and physical exhaustion, always moving. Moving. He never stopped moving.

His heart was a bomb, and it ticked and tocked and sometimes, out of nowhere, it exploded. It wasn't something he really knew how to control, for in his being he felt emotions so intensely that they tended to overwhelm him to the point where he felt that he could burst. Sometimes, the anger was so severe that it crept up his small hands and leaked through the knuckles of his clenched fists. And before he knew it, they'd met the cheek of one of his classmates, or the cold stiffness of a wall; and what once were the fragile hands of a child became the bleeding weapons that oozed onto the floor.

His muscles were springs, cogs, metal rods and all sorts of fleshy machinery. They whirred and churned and coughed out exhaust, spurring him onward like a steed without direction, with no rider to guide its way. From a young age, he was propelled into the harshness of the world, thrust forward into the cold, bitter realities that roamed it without so much as an ounce of preparation. He simply had to deal. And move. And fight to keep on living.

Even as a child, Eren Jaeger was a machine.

And every day, he wound up his screws and functioned. When other kids his age were playing with their toys and seeing the world from their fathers' shoulders, Eren had to see it through the lenses of his mother's foggy eyes, reflected in shadowy glimpses of fleeting possibility. Sickness had the tendency to eat away at everything he loved. His best friend Armin was always sick. His dear mother was always sick. People were always sick and Eren hated it.

Mom had an illness whose name he could not pronounce, or even remember. But it made her bones hurt, and her heart beat weird, and her muscles ache so bad that sometimes they cramped and kept her from moving. She too had a peculiar anatomy. Where Eren was made of indestructible features, Carla Jaeger was made of paper and glass.

She spent her days in bed inside a separate room his dad prepared for her to store all sorts of medical equipment and stuff. They connected to her wrists and made odd beeping noises that sometimes lulled Eren to sleep. Every single day after getting home from school, he sat beside his mother's bed and waited. Sometimes, he watched her sleep. Sometimes, he read her stories or did his homework by her side. Sometimes, he curled up beside her and took naps in her bed—but it's okay, don't worry. Her illness wasn't contagious at all.

His mother hadn't always been sick, but it sure felt that way. He was four when it first happened, when a random ambulance showed up at his house after "she fell," as Daddy had told him. Eren thought she'd just gotten a boo boo and needed to get it fixed, but then months passed and she slept more and more and did less and less and he had to eat TV dinners and whatever his father cooked for him because she couldn't make the trip to the kitchen anymore. That made him sad, because his mom made the best spaghetti and now she rarely ever made it. It was all very confusing for him, and he couldn't understand why or how it all occurred, but eventually, Eren stopped asking questions.

It was the day that Mikasa had broken Sarah Hale's nose that he was taken to a "mind doctor" or, as his father called it, a "psychiatrist". They made him answer all sorts of silly questions, and jotted down some squiggly, cryptic notes and eventually concluded that Eren suffered from something called Insomnia and requested that they test him for ADD or ADHD or ABCDEFG something like that. They gave him medication for anxiety, and some other pills to make him sleep, and some other blue, funny looking pill that he wasn't sure was even given to him for. He felt tempted to ask if they had pills for big hearts that felt too much, for he surely suffered from that ailment. He didn't ask though. The question felt silly to voice aloud.

His father, Grisha, with the fancy-looking specs and long hair and doctorate in medicine, didn't make an effort to treat his own son, despite his ability to do so. It was a universal rule among doctors that one should never treat members of their own family. But honestly, that was just a whole lot of baloney to Eren. How could you _not _treat your own family? Isn't that what doctors are there to do? Help sick people? Eren didn't think that he was sick, but his mom was sick and his dad never treated her and that made him mad. A lot of things made him mad. But that made him angrier than anything else in the entire world because it was the one thing Eren hated more than anything: It was _unfair_. And he could never bring himself to understand that.

Once they made it back home, Eren went straight to his mother's room and closed the door behind him, not even bothering to take off his shoes before climbing onto her bed. The smell of antiseptic and general cleanliness tickled his nose, but soon he found the familiar scent of his mother tingeing the sheets he pulled up over himself.

In a matter of minutes, he was out. Funny that the doctors thought he needed sleeping medicine. All Eren really needed was his mom.

**—o—**

"Don't tell your mother I said this, but I am very proud of you, Mikasa."

"Thanks, Papa."

"No, listen to me. I mean it. I know your mother was hard on you for not being honest with her, but we're not always going to be there to protect you, so you gotta know how to protect yourself."

Her father took a serious lick of his ice cream and grumbled something under his breath, something Mikasa couldn't hear over the noise of chocolate sprinkles breaking between her teeth.

"And if you ask me," he huffed, fiddling with his wristwatch, still in his work clothes. "I think you should've broken more than just her nose, kiddo. You should've broken her entire face, taught that little racist brat a lesson."

Mikasa snorted softly, taking a lick of her own chocolate ice cream cone. "If Mama heard you right now, she wouldn't be happy, Papa."

"I know." He pinched her cheek and wiped a fleck of chocolate ice cream from the corner of her mouth with his finger. "That's why you won't tell her anything. Keep it between us, okay?"

The girl nodded. "Okay."

They sat outside a small ice cream parlor near their home, watching the sun paint the bellies of clouds with all sorts of wild, flaming colors. The day was ending soon. Ice cream season would be ending soon too, much to Mikasa's sadness.

Papa had taken her for a ride after leaving the principal's office; Mama had gone straight home to start dinner and calm herself. She was mad. Mad that the bullying had gotten so out of hand. Mad that Mikasa hadn't been truthful to her. Mad that the school authorities never did anything to prevent all the abuse. She'd cursed them all out in Japanese, and planted a stern eye on Mikasa and said that "we will talk about this later." Papa had intervened in an attempt to keep the peace, as he always did. When Mama was furious, she was a fearsome thing to behold.

"So, about this Jaeger kid," her father said out of nowhere. Mikasa's feet swung back and forth in the air as they sat on a bench, her eyes going wide at the mention of Eren. She hadn't told anyone of how he had egged her on, told her to fight back and strike those that abused her. But, apparently, the principal knew about his part in the entire thing. The school has cameras, he'd said. Why they used that as an excuse was bewildering. If they have cameras and all, why didn't they stop the bullies the first time they'd seen them attack her? (This was something Mama had raged about.) Fortunately, though, Eren was to suffer no consequences for his part in the entire thing; only Sarah and Mikasa were to pay. Sarah for being a racist little shit, Mikasa for crumpling her nose into pieces. Her hand still hurt, by the way. She'd have to ice it.

"The principal said his mother's ill. Did you know that?"

Somehow, in her heart, she already did. But to hear it pronounced and confirm her speculations was another thing. In a way, Mikasa wasn't even surprised. Just devastated. Eren had that sort of honesty that reflected on the outside. He was an open book, and the stories of his life were all written on his skin for the world to see. And somewhere along the lines, Mikasa had caught up on the hints that indicated he had a sick mother. And she'd decided that it was only her imagination. And now she saw that it was not.

Sometimes, being adept at reading people wasn't a skill she was proud of.

"No," and she wished that her father would laugh and slap his knee and say that he was joking, say that Eren's mother is completely fine and healthy and that there's nothing wrong with her. But the laugh, the joke, the knee slapping… they never came.

"And she's the one that's been making you lunches, yeah?"

"Yes."

He took a deep breath, staring at the ice cream cone in his hand. "We gotta find a way to thank her."

"That's why I made her that flower crown," she explained, gazing at her bruised knuckles. "I wanted her to wear it."

"Make her another one. We'll find a way to give it to her." Her father was silent for a long time. Mikasa was nearly done with her cone when he turned to her and said, "Is he the prince?"

She swallowed, blinking at him. "Huh?"

"Eren. Is he your prince? The one you and your mother use nicknames for around me so that I won't find out about him?" Mikasa's silence told him all he needed to know. Papa cocked his head back with a smile. "Ah, he is, then."

"Don't tell Mama that it's him," she begged him, her tummy in knots. At the mention of the boy and her nickname for him, she found it hard to eat. "I want to keep his identity a mystery."

"I won't, kiddo. But tell me, you got a crush on him or something?"

"Papa, I'm nine!" she cried. Her father was laughing.

"So? I had crushes when I was your age."

''No, I don't have a crush on him."

"Then why are your cheeks all red?" He took her little pout between his fingers and squished it, making her grimace. "My little girl's got a crush!" he chuckled loudly, but then stared worriedly ahead. "Oh my god, no, wait. That's not a good thing."

Mikasa frowned, equally as worried, as if having a crush on someone were a disease she'd been afflicted with. "It's not?"

She was ready for her death sentence, but her father placed a hand on the top of her head and sighed. "Well, fathers are supposed to be mad about that sort of stuff, no?" His eyes on her were almost sad, but then they squinted and he frowned and pouted and grumbled. "So here I am, mad."

Mikasa hopped on her feet and walked over to her father, giving him a sticky, chocolatey kiss on the cheek and pleading. "Don't be mad, Papa." Her father looked down at his hands, smirking.

"Too late. You're growing up too fast and I don't like it. I'm mad."

"I don't have a crush," she assured him. Papa threw an arm around her and pulled her close to his chest, almost getting chocolate ice cream all over his dress shirt.

"I'm so proud of you, Mikasa," he breathed into her hair, closing his eyes. "Even if you're grounded and this'll be the last ice cream cone you have for a while, I want you to know: I really am very proud of you."

She hoped that Eren was too.

When he let her go, Mikasa's eyes searched his for a long moment. It almost seemed unreal to imagine all the things she'd done today. She'd brought a flower crown to school, cried, looked at Eren, punched a bully in the face and broken her nose, gotten suspended from school, gotten a glare from her mother and a low-five from her dad. Her heart felt numb under the weight of all sorts of different emotions. She was so overwhelmed that she scarcely felt any emotion, as if it had been another person that did all those things today, not her.

"Now," Papa told her, checking the time on his watch. "Hurry up and eat your ice cream—and get rid of all the evidence. Your mom can't know I took you out to celebrate your three-day suspension from school instead of giving you 'the chat'."

The girl smiled.

Fondness, however, was an emotion she could still feel very well.

"Yes, Papa."

**—o—**

He was awoken by a set of tender lips, the kiss they planted on his cheek as light as a feather, a breath of love upon his skin. When his eyes slid open and blinked away the last vestige of slumber, Eren peered up to find his mother's honey-colored eyes staring down at him.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she told him, even though the sun was setting and light dwindled outside. "Sleep well?"

He moaned groggily and stretched his arms over his head, joints popping. It took him a while to realize that his shoes weren't on his feet anymore. His mother must've taken them off while he was sleeping. "Yup," he sighed, turning on his side to face her. Carla snorted gently out of her nose, picking at his eye to clean out some eye booger. He squirmed. "Mommy, gross." But she ignored his complaints and told him to hold still.

"How was school today?" she asked after getting a tissue and insisting that he blow his nose, to which he complained as well but she didn't even bat an eye at.

"Same as always," Eren sniffled, closing his eyes as she ran a hand through his messy hair. He didn't see how she smiled at him.

"Get into any fights?"

"Nope. Not today."

"That's my boy."

The feeling of her nails scraping his scalp were slowly lulling him back to sleep, but then an image flashed into his mind and he saw flower petals dancing, a fist splitting through the air and the loud, sickening crack of bones breaking.

He opened his eyes.

"Mom." Her hand ceased its stroking, resting on his cheek. "You know that girl I told you about? The new girl?"

"The one we've been making lunches for."

"Yeah. Well, she punched Sarah in the face today. I think she broke her nose."

"Did she really?" Carla asked. Eren giggled.

"Yeah. It was awesome, Mom. I loved it."

"Eren," she chided. The child untangled himself from the sheets and sat up on his knees, bright eyes boring into hers.

"Mom, it's true!" he exclaimed, bouncing slightly on the bed. "I wanted to cheer but that would've gotten me another detention so I stayed quiet."

"Why did she punch her?"

"Sarah was super extra mean to her today. Like, super duper extra mean, Ma. She deserved it."

Carla's sigh was weary. "Nobody deserves violence, Eren." But her son was adamant. He shook his head.

"Sarah Hale deserves it."

She gave him a look but all it did was make him laugh again and flash a happy, wicked grin. She noticed that one of his teeth was missing. Another baby tooth she wasn't there to see him lose.

Carla wondered just how much her son had to do with Mikasa breaking Sarah's nose.

But instead of asking, she voiced the second thing that had been sitting on her tongue. "Your father told me that you're on meds now. It this true?"

The boy's gaze sunk slightly, smile fading from his lips. "Yes."

"Where are they?"

He hopped off the bed and went to fetch his school bag. Three pharmaceutical bags were in his hand when he got back.

"I don't understand," the woman frowned as she read one of the labels, her son plopping beside her on the bed. "Why are they giving you pills for anxiety?"

"I dunno," Eren shrugged, twiddling his thumbs on his chest. "I didn't even know they made pills for that. They may as well make pills for happiness and sadness and—wait, _do_ they make pills for sadness too?"

"Sort of, yeah."

"Oh, I need those."

"You do not," Carla told him sternly. He cringed at her tone. "Don't say that. I don't like that you're on medication."

Eren studied the crease between her brows for a moment before asking, "Am I sick, Mommy?"

This made her turn her head and scrutinize him.

She was silent for a bit, until a sigh filled her mouth and she set his medication on the bedside table. Laying down beside him once more, she threw an arm over her son's belly and whispered into his hair. "You're not sick, baby."

Eren closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in her scent. She smelled like sleep and morphine lollipops. "Then why do I need meds?" he asked her, cracking an eye open when she kissed the arch of his brow.

"I'm gonna have a talk with your father," was all his mother said. Eren craned his neck to get a better look of her.

"Are you gonna yell at him?"

"I never yell at him."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm just passionate at times, that's all. You know I love him very much."

"I know. That's why you're always kissing. Ew."

"_Ew," _Carla mocked, pinching his nose. "Cooties." She said something about him no longer thinking that kisses are gross once he gets his first girlfriend, to which Eren guffawed.

"I'm never having a girlfriend. Girls are weird."

"Are you saying I'm weird?"

"You're not a girl. You're a mom."

"Thanks," she mumbled. Eren yawned, rolling on an elbow and holding his head up with one hand. "What about Mikasa?"

"What about her?"

"What's she like? You almost never talk about her."

"I don't know. She's a little… different, Mom."

"How come?"

"I don't mean that she looks different. I mean, yeah, she does but that's not what I mean. She's very quiet and her eyes are kinda big and sad and she has a squeaky voice but never uses it." And her mouth is small, her lips are always pink and when they're not pink they're red and they're thin save for her upper lip that kinda curves up at the top and her nose is small too and it's kinda funny how small it is because it has this impossible point that's like, huh? How even? How is it possible for it to be that tiny? Can she even breathe right? Does her head implode with every sneeze? And her lashes are super thick and long, like God had too many lashes left from creating other babies so he gave all the extra ones to her. Her skin is white like the snow, but her hair is dark like ash and she always has it up in a bun and she's unlike anything he's ever seen before. She kinda looks like a girl taken out of a storybook. Unreal. "She's pretty," he said finally, which caused his mother to raise her eyebrows.

"Is she?"

"Oh, yeah," he sniffled, wiping his nose with the edge of his wrist. "Very pretty. Makes me feel all sorts of weird."

"Like how weird?"

Eren took a long, deep breath, thinking. "Like…" a hand stroking his belly, "butterflies in my stomach weird."

"Oh, my," Carla beamed.

Eren frowned. "What?"

"You have a crush on her."

Disgust twisted his features. "Ew, that's nasty."

"Why? Isn't she cute?"

"I don't have a crush, Mom."

"Your ears are red!"

He scrambled for a pillow, throwing it over the back of his head and pulling it on both sides so that it covered his ears. "No, they're not!" he shouted into the mattress. Carla snickered, jabbing her fingers into his ribs so that he squirmed.

"Then why do you get butterflies in your tummy, huh?" she teased with a giggle. "If you don't like her?"

Her son's voice was muffled into the bed. A tiny, high-pitched wail. "They're friendly butterflies! Like, the type that wanna be her friend. Not kiss her! That's yucky!"

"Alright," she smirked, patting his little butt. "If you say so."

Slowly, Eren peeked his head out from under the pillow, and Carla found herself grinning at a pair of big green eyes. "Mom," he said suddenly, sitting back on his heels. His hair was a wreck. "I have an idea."

"Tell me."

"How about I give you my meds and you can have 'em instead of me."

"That's not how it works, honey." She smiled at his innocence, but her son furrowed his brows, not understanding.

"But why? Maybe you just need to try _my _medicine and you'll be cured." At that, the tenderness in her eyes fell, a mantle of gloom elevated. Eren studied his mother's expression, reaching out to place a hand on her arm. "Did I say something wrong, Mommy?"

"No, baby," she said, but the he didn't believe her.

"You look sad."

"I'm tired, that's all."

"You're always tired."

Carla looked up to the ceiling and threw her hands up as if to say _such is life_. Sadness happens. Happiness happens. Illnesses happen. Such is life.

Eren's frown only grew deeper. Carla tapped his chin and whispered, "Come here," patting her chest, "I'm gonna tell you a story about a clam."

"Oh, no," he complained, but laid his head down on her chest anyway, his small body settling beside her lanky frame.

"Shh, listen." She wrapped her arms around him and buried her nose in his hair. It smelled of sweat. She smiled. "Once upon a time, there was an ugly clam, and this clam felt very different from all the others because it was so weird-looking on the outside. So, the other clams always made fun of it for being different, and that clam grew up believing that something was wrong with it."

"I don't like this story," Eren protested. Carla pinched the side of his thigh.

"Hush. Listen. But then, one day, divers came and harvested all the clams for food. They suffered the same fate, died as equals. But you wanna know what they found inside that really ugly clam that they didn't find in any other?"

He draped an arm around her waist, sighing. "What?"

"A pearl."

"A pearl?"

"Oh, yes. But not just any pearl. It was the single most beautiful pearl in the entire world." Carla took hold of his hand, passing her thumb over the small ridges of his knuckles. His fingers were so small compared to hers, but she knew that this wouldn't last long, for her child grew at an alarming speed. "You see, she explained after a moment, "clams that produce pearls are very rare. Mostly, pearls come from oysters. But this ugly clam that grew up its entire life believing that something was wrong with it held one of the world's most beautiful treasures, and it had no idea how special it was until its very last day."

"But then why didn't somebody tell that clam that it was special?" Eren frowned, curling his fingers around hers. "Maybe then, it would've known and it wouldn't have died so sad."

"I agree. Maybe if the clam had known more love it would've understood that what others say about him isn't all that important. But that isn't the point. The point is, Eren, you're that ugly clam."

"Gee, thanks," he muttered. Carla laughed.

"No, no, listen. I say that because, as you grow, you will find hundreds of people that will try to make you feel unimportant, but you should never let superficial things like what happens on the outside ruin what you hold inside." Her fingers found his chin and she lifted his face so that their eyes met. Her irises were gold in the afternoon night, reflected in her son's own gaze in the form of tiny flecks. She pushed his bangs out of his face, and smiled tenderly at the baby-like pudginess of his cheeks when she cupped them in her hands. "Sometimes, you may feel like the ugly clam, but don't ever forget that inside of you there is something tremendously special. You can do anything. You can be anything." A light kiss on the tip of his nose for good measure. "You're beautiful, my son."

Eren was silent for a moment, staring at his mother's thinning hair.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"If I'm the ugly clam, then you're my pearl."

Carla smiled so brightly that her cheeks hurt. Eren smiled with her. His cheeks hurt too.

And they laughed. Because suddenly the thought of Eren being a clam and his mother being a pearl seemed very funny.

"Now, it's your turn to tell me a story," she said after a while.

"I don't know any, though."

She reached out and pulled a book from under her pillow. "Read me one, then."

"But Ma," the child whined. "I _hate _reading."

"Shhh," she breathed, sitting up on the bed. "I'll read with you."

A mighty sigh left his mouth, deflating his small chest. With a roll of his eyes, Eren crawled onto her lap. "Fine." He sat between her legs, his back pressed to her chest, her chin atop his head, and the book open in front of them. Carla held it, and it was Eren's job to turn the pages. Together, they read aloud.

At the back of his ribs, he could feel his mother's steady heartbeat. It beat fiercely. Intently. With the reverberating force of a sparrow's wings. The feeling of life against his back reminded him that he still had her. It was a wonderful feeling—one of great magnitude, love—to be with her this way.

It felt very much like flying.

**—o—**

Mikasa couldn't sleep. Mama had grounded her for a week for lying to her, and because she was suspended from school, she had three whole days to lay about her house and do nothing. She watched Mama sew clothes and harvest flowers from their dying garden. Autumn was just around the corner and leaves fell from the tired, sighing trees. Flowers wilted, as did Mama's stern frown until she was her old loving self again.

Mikasa didn't like that she was grounded, because it meant no chocolate or TV for a week. But she could understand why her mother felt so wounded. It dawned on her that perhaps she'd caused more harm than good by keeping the truth from her parents. She heard Mama crying one night when she thought she'd been asleep, and hated herself for her naivete. Of course her mother was hurt greatly by the abuse that she'd been facing; it was one she'd had to deal with her whole life! No decent parent ever wishes the same cruelty that they faced upon their child.

And then, one night, Mikasa started crying too. She didn't know why she wept. Perhaps it was out of boredom. Heck, with nothing to do for days anyone would be cajoled to tears. But she clutched Ningyo to her chest and sobbed, the tears streaming down her face freely. She thought that she'd been quiet, but then a soft creak indicated that her mother was at her door. Slowly, her lithe, warm body slipped under the covers and snuggled close to the girl. She wrapped her child in her arms and stroked her hair, asking no questions. The tears came and came without stopping. Mikasa cried herself to sleep that night, too.

The next morning, the girl realized why she'd been crying, and why sleep had been so hard to find those days. She felt guilty. Eren had been so kind to her, and to find out that he had a sick mother, and a difficult home life, tore her heart to shreds. If only she could help him somehow, return all the happiness he'd given her. A hundred flower crowns weren't enough to amend such joy.

She was playing with her breakfast one morning when the house phone rang. Pancakes weren't all that appetizing without chocolate chips in them. It was day three of being grounded, and Mikasa was already letting out an agonized moan.

"Mikasa," her mother peeked her head into the kitchen and signaled for her to stand up. "It's for you, love."

Another moan of agony left her as she brought herself to her feet. So much effort. All those restless days had made her lethargic and lazy. Mama rolled her eyes at her drama.

"Hello?" Mikasa husked, voice thick with maple syrup. She clutched the handset to her ear, blinking slowly.

"_Mikasa?" _answered a familiar high-pitched voice. Immediately, she recognized it.

"Armin!"

"_Hey! How are you?"_

Grounded. Miserable. In need of chocolate _pronto. _"Good. You?"

"_Feeling much better. I'm coming back to school tomorrow!"_

"Yay!" she cheered, crumpling the skirt of her nightgown in her free hand. "Finally!"

"_I know! I can't wait to see you again. I'm sorry about you getting bullied. I know what it's like."_

"It's okay. It's over now."

"_Eren told me you broke Sarah Hale's nose."_

She peeked over at her mother. She was busy washing dishes. Good. "I did, yes."

"_And you made her wear the flower crown she ruined. Nicely done."_

"Thanks. How is he?"

"_Who, Eren?"_

"Mhm."

"_He's alright. Same as ever."_

She picked at a chipping fleck of paint on the wall with her nails. "Mmm."

"_He fell at school yesterday during recess. Scraped his knee up real bad. He's wearing bandages and everything."_

"Oh no. Is he okay?"

"_Yup!"_ Armin gave his usual hiccuping laugh. "_Eren's always falling and cutting himself up. Don't worry. I'm sure he laughed it off like he always does."_

"Alright." _I miss him. I miss you. I miss you both._

The two kids fell into a short period of silence, which wasn't uncommon with them. Armin rarely ever spoke unless it was to say something important, and Mikasa rarely ever spoke period.

"_He says he can't wait for you to come back," _Armin added suddenly. Mikasa felt her heart give a happy squeal.

"Really?"

"_Yup! He really likes you!"_

Heat rose to her cheeks. She found herself smiling. "I like him too."

"_Good! I'm glad I introduced you guys! I was scared you'd find him weird."_

"Well, he is a little weird."

"_Hey, so are you."_

"True," she giggled, bringing a hand to her cheek. Her skin felt hot. "Do you know when I'll be able to see him again?"

"_What do you mean?"_

"Ah," she shook her head, "never mind. Silly question."

"_I see." _Silence again. There was nothing but their steady breathing until: " _Hey, I know!"_

"What?"

"_Next time you go to school, take the bus in the morning. Don't have your mother drive you."_

"Why?"

"_You'll see why." _

Even through the phone, Mikasa could tell Armin was smiling.

"Armin…" she voiced skeptically. The boy practically hissed.

"_Mikasa. Just trust me."_

When did she not? "Okay."

"_See you at school then."_

"See you."

"_Remember to take the bus!"_

"I will!"

"_Okay, bye."_

"Bye."

"_Don't let the bedbugs bite!"_

"Huh?"

"_I don't know, I just wanted to say that."_

"That makes no sense, Armin!" she moaned. They giggled.

"_Bye!"_

"Bye."

Mikasa was too short to reach the base unit, so she pulled up a chair against the wall and climbed it to be able to hang up the phone. When she ended the call, there was a click, a small chuckle on her lips.

_Weirdo._

**—o—**

"Are you sure you want to be taking the bus now, Mikasa?"

"It's only for today, Mama."

The morning was cold. Cool air crept up the skirt of Mikasa's school uniform and nipped her bare legs. It hurt to walk. Her knee-high socks only offered so much heat. Her mother was shivering.

"Goodness," the woman huffed, a cloud puffing from her mouth. "It's freezing out here."

It sure didn't help that they lived in the middle of friggin' nowhere.

"It's only for today," the girl repeated. Mama curled an arm around her shoulders and brought her close.

They walked, bodies pressed together, the mother's hand rubbing the girl's arm to keep her warm. Fog hung in the air around them. The tall trees kept away the morning light. Everything was gray and creepy. A bird flapped its wings. An owl's hoot echoed through naked branches. Mikasa questioned whether following Armin's advice had been a smart decision after all.

When they finally made it to the bus stop, nobody was there.

It was a lonely little place, really. A large willow tree hunched over a wooden bench whose legs were drilled to the ground to keep it from moving. The tree's weeping leaves hissed and swayed, their tired arms reaching down to nothing, to grasp at air. Something about the bench, however, was thoroughly endearing to Mikasa. She smiled at it as if it had eyes to see her, as if it had feelings. She'd been around people long enough to understand that sometimes inanimate objects had more history and character than living things. That bench was old in a human way. If Armin's grandfather were a bench, that's what he would look like.

"My God," Mama shivered. The tip of her nose was pink. "Remind me to bring a coat with me next time."

Despite the cold, despite her mother's soft Japanese cursing, Mikasa felt a smile blooming on her lips. She curved her small hand around Mama's. Her skin was ice. She held on tighter.

"Be a good girl today," her mother said. "No nose breaking, okay?"

"Okay."

"If anyone bullies you, you better damn tell me. I mean it, Mikasa Ackerman." Oh snap. Full name with "damn" and everything.

"Yes, Mama."

They waited. Five minutes passed and Mama was pulling a handkerchief out of her bra to blow her nose. Poor woman. She really was suffering.

"Here," she sniffled, pulling out another handkerchief for Mikasa to blow her nose on. The girl gawped at her, horrified.

"Mama, two?!"

"Two what?"

"Two handkerchiefs?"

"What about it?"

"In your boobies?!"

Mama threw her head back with a laugh that was uncommonly loud for her quiet nature. "They have to serve me for something, you know." She was referring to her bosoms. Gross.

Mikasa grimaced as her mother crouched before her, holding the handkerchief to her nose.

"Someday, you will understand. Boobies can be useful. Now, blow."

Mikasa blew through her nostrils until she felt that her eyes could pop. Mama wiped away at her boogers, making sure her nose was clean. "Useful for what?" the girl asked as her mother straightened, furrowing a brow. She regretted the question instantly.

"First of all, they keep your father very happy."

"Oh, barf!"

"Second, they are good for hiding things. Like tissues. And keys."

"I'm gonna be sick."

"Also, they feed newborn babies. That's the most important thing."

"Okay, I get it."

"You were breast fed until you were almost a year old. Did you know that?"

Mikasa shook her head, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Sometimes, her mother said some really surprising things. "Please. No more, Mama."

"You're only nine." She patted her daughter's flat chest. "Don't fret. Yours should start growing soon."

"God," she groaned. Laughter again.

But then a figure appeared in the distance and Mama's laughter stopped.

"What is that?" she gasped, pointing at it. Mikasa turned her head and squinted at the silhouette in the fog.

"Is it a ghost?"

"Hold my hand."

They held each other, dark eyes trained on the figure that was slowly taking form. It seemed big at first, but then grew smaller, smaller, smaller. Was it an animal? A deer? A monster? Mikasa blinked hard, praying the creeping shadow away. It did not leave them. It merely prowled closer. Closer. Still, it held no practical shape. It never stopped moving. It drew near.

"Mama, we're gonna die."

"Shh."

This is it. This is their end. Give all her dolls to Armin. Give Ningyo to his grandpa; he'll keep her safe. Give all her clothes to charity but keep her chocolate in her room because that is sacred and Mikasa will come back for it even in death. She hopes that clouds are extra fluffy in Heaven. She lived a good life. She'll remember her friends, her loved ones, Eren. She will remember ballet. She will always—

Leaves crackling.

It's almost here.

A chill crept up her spine and swarmed her skin with goosebumps. Mikasa curled into her mother, hiding her face in her belly, her hands holding onto her shirt. The scene was straight out of a scary movie. There was silence, save for their heavy breaths and the crackling of leaves under approaching feet.

Mikasa heard the figure come to a stop.

It's here.

_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—_

"Oh," her mother droned suddenly, cutting her internal scream short. "It's just a boy. Good morning!"

Mikasa went to turn her head but then, suddenly, she heard the raspy croak of a familiar throat.

"Morning, ma'am."

Holy mother of pizza crusts dipped in garlic sauce.

It can't be.

"Wait, Mikasa?"

"Eren?"

_It is._

He gawked at her. She gawked at him. Mama bounced her eyes back and forth between them. Confusion everywhere. Fog everywhere. None knew what to say.

An owl hooted.

A bird flapped its wings.

Falling leaves met the ground gently.

And it all somehow culminated into this one scene between them, this event of meeting once again. It was almost as if they hadn't met outside of school, as if a world where they existed without classrooms and teachers was unimaginable.

There was a stunned silence. And Mama's cough. And then it broke.

"What the heck?" That would be Eren.

"What are you doing here?" Mikasa asked, voice hardly a whisper. Her throat felt tight. Her eyes dug into his and she watched as Eren's face went red. He was blushing. Or was she imagining it?

"I…" he stammered, looking down at his feet. His hands were in his pockets and his school bag was slung over his shoulder, a serious case of bedhead destroying his hair. "Well, I live here." He pointed vaguely over his shoulder. Everything beyond him was covered in fog. "In that house right over there." There was no house anywhere that they could see. Still, Mama nodded. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked her.

Mikasa went completely stiff.

Piece by piece, it all fell together.

"_Next time you go to school, take the bus in the morning. Don't have your mother drive you."_

"_You'll see why." _

"_Mikasa. Just trust me."_

Flames smoldered in her eyes. Fists clenched. Lips pursed. Shoulders squared. She squinted at the ground. This was all Armin's scheme. He _planned_ for this to happen. That cheese eater. That pumpernickel. That… cucumber… licking... yeah.

"We live nearby," Mama replied when her daughter took too long to answer. "So I'm guessing we're neighbors?"

"Guess so, yeah." The boy sniffled, wiping his nose. Mikasa prayed with every ounce of her being that her mother wouldn't pull out a third handkerchief from between her breasts and offer it to him. She didn't, thank the Lord. "Nobody ever comes to this bus stop," Eren said as he came closer. "It's always been just me."

"You're here every morning?" Mama frowned, hugging herself. "All on your own? In the cold?"

A shrug. His gaze was downcast. "My dad works early."

"What about your—" Mikasa took her mother's hand and squeezed it so fiercely that she let out a surprised yelp. Her eyes flew down to her, shocked.

_Don't_, the girl mouthed, shaking her head. Mama was speechless.

"She sleeps in late," Eren said, rubbing his eyes, catching up on the question despite Mikasa's efforts. His tone was calm, voice tinged with sleep, eyes a little red and groggy. He looked as if he'd just crawled straight out of bed.

"Well, then." Mama smiled. "Wow. Good thing we came today, huh?" She looked down at Mikasa, then back up at him. He was traipsing over to sit on the grandpa bench beneath the willow tree. "Now we know you're here and Mikasa can keep you company! Right, honey?"

Right. Yeah. Exactly.

Except that Mikasa may or may not have been shaking because holy pooping parakeet that was Eren Jaeger, the one who gave her lunches and told her to fight Sarah and made her cry a few nights ago and who her father thinks she's got a crush on and the prince okay, he's the bloody _prince_ and he's her neighbor. Her stinking, friggin' neighbor and Armin never told her anything!

And now, they were going to share a bus ride.

To school.

A bus ride.

Twenty minutes.

That's how long it took to get to their elementary school. That's how long it took for Mikasa to stop shaking. That's how long it took for her heart to beat normal again and for her lungs to open up and gasp because honestly, she was having a lot of trouble breathing around Eren lately. Like, a lot.

But she didn't have a crush on him. No. Never. In that, Papa was wrong...

Wasn't he?

* * *

**A/N: **I already have the next chapter completely written and edited, which means that we get two updates this month instead of one. Yay! As always, thank you to everyone who hasn't abandoned this story and still leaves me kind reviews. Sometimes, I feel blue when I see people take it out of their favorites list or tell me that it's too slow and that Eren and Mikasa should just make out already. But then there's those of you who are so kind and supportive, and genuinely care for the characters and look forward to seeing them grow. You guys are like little rays of light that shine in through the gloom and keep me going. So thanks a bunch.

Once again, a huge thanks to Em for helping me edit this. I love you, girl. (Psst, she's idk-anime in tumblr, you should check her out.)

Much love, and I'll see you all very soon in next chapter. Don't forget to leave a review and share your thoughts!


	11. The Girl With the Snowflakes in Her Hair

**A/N:** A big thanks to Emily and Jess for editing this thingy thing! As promised, here's this month's second update. Hope you enjoy, and Merry Early Christmas. Thanks a bunch to those who are thoughtful enough to leave kind reviews. You're the apple to my jelly. Or something like that.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _The Girl With the Snowflakes in Her Hair_ :.

.: Chapter XI :.

* * *

When Mikasa Ackerman is scared, she freezes. Her muscles tense, every minuscule fragment of her body winds up tightly. She recoils, like a snail crawling back into its shell. Even her gaze seems strained, trapped somehow. And it's all very daunting for Eren to see. It always has been.

Desperate, his mind clamors, scrambling for ways to help her bounce back to normal ("normal" being: still scared, but not as scared as this). Her eyes fill with terror, whereas mere seconds ago they'd looked relaxed, calm as always. But now, they're wide. And now, the subtle smile that had tinged her lips is gone, replaced by the harsh shape of a speechless circle. Sasha's face is arranged in this same appalled manner, except that where Mikasa's reflects a light of dread, hers mirrors the shadows of confusion.

Eren's eyes trace every aspect of the woman beside him, studying the lip that clenches between her teeth, the hands that reach up to wring together, the subtle flutter of her lashes as her gaze falls to the side. She won't look at him. She won't look at Sasha. The far-off look in her eyes says that she's sinking into herself, doubting, questioning her place beside him once more.

Fuck.

"Jean said you'd gone out for a walk." Sasha's voice catches, so she clears her throat. "I… Wow. Never thought I'd find you here, though." She chuckles, raking an awkward hand through her auburn hair. The tresses fall around her shoulders in wild waves, having recently been set free from the high ponytail she's usually sporting.

Eren sucks in a sharp breath, but she queries before he can say anything, "Are you two friends?"

"Yes." Mikasa suddenly finds her voice. "We're childhood friends."

Childhood friends, Eren thinks. Yeah, okay. That sounds good enough. "I found her wandering outside all lost," he says, peering at the girl. Her dark eyes meet his. They cut into him, pleading. "I'm helping her find her way back."

"Oh! Will you be out long?"

Their gazes tear apart and Eren's finally meets Sasha's. "Nope!"

"Good," she grins, all the awkwardness seeming to have left her. Now, more than ever, Eren's grateful for her natural ability to recover quickly from uncomfortable situations, for Mikasa's rigid form pokes splinters into him, making him feel just as tense as she. "Because I," the auburn girl sings, elongating her vowels, "brought you something from the party I know you'll really like!" She holds up the foam carry-out box in her hands, and Mikasa's nose tingles, catching the strong smell of food.

"Fried ravioli?" she chirps, rubbing her pert nose. Sasha gasps, a bit too enthusiastic.

"Yes!"

"Awe," Eren groans, giving his friend a grateful smile. "I love fried ravioli."

She shoots him a knowing wink. "We know."

Mikasa wets her lips, her hands ceasing their nervous dance to clench at her sides. "Did Jean mention anything else? About me?" The question makes them all tense, but Sasha smiles kindly, her eyes strolling over to Eren before darting back to her.

"Nope. You want me to call him and let him know you're on your way back?"

"No!" All three jump from her sudden shout. "Sorry," she whispers, her face going hot with shame. "Uh, no, please. I can handle it."

"Okay," Sasha blinks, handing the box of food over to Eren, who's quick to pry it open and pop a ravioli into his mouth (which earns him a slap on the arm). "Honestly?" she peels her coat off and turns to Mikasa, "I don't blame you for ditching that party, girl. It's full of blockheads. I swear, I was three seconds away from pelting Jean's mother upside the head with a wine bottle. I'm sure you know what that's like." Her coat flies over to Eren's arms, and he throws it on the coat hanger by the door, giving her a look when she wretches the box of food from his hands and thumps his chest with her fist gently. "I'm putting your raviolis in the microwave. If someone eats them before you get back, it ain't my fault."

"Thank you," he says. Sasha taps the cleft of his chin with her fingertip.

"Aw, look at you!" she chortles awfully loud. "All nice and shaved. I was starting to think we'd lose your handsome face to all that nasty scruffy scruff."

Eren frowns, not knowing how to take that.

"It was good seeing you, hun," she tells Mikasa, and that's the most they've conversed in all the time they've known each other. "Now that I know you're friends with this airhead we could all pick a day and hang out!" She wraps an arm around her in a rather awkward hug.

Her breath is warm against her ear:

"Don't worry. I won't tell Jean."

"Thank you."

"If he ever found out, he would kill us."

"I know."

"You for lying, me for keeping it from him."

"Thanks again."

"Thank me later. Over pastries. We'll talk soon."

Whether Eren notices their little exchange or not, he shows no sign of it.

The other guests have begun to notice Sasha's presence. Some of them call after her, but she ignores them, saying in a louder tone so that Eren can hear, "Don't let him keep you too long—and watch out. A few months ago, Eren got drunk and fell and hit his head real hard and he's had a fruit fetish ever since. Had a wild affair with a papaya once, too."

The poor man throws his head back in agony, emitting a loud moan.

"Don't let him tell you otherwise!" she exclaims when Hitch appears to grab her upper arms from behind and whisk her away. "He's been known as papaya fucker ever since! Everyone in this room can confirm this!"

"Sasha, hey!"

"Hole in the papaya!"

"Sash! Did you meet Mufasa?!"

"Mufa-what?!"

Boom. The door closes and the shouting comes to an end, replaced by Eren's long sigh of exasperation and the buzzing of the naked light bulb that flickers on over their heads.

"I'm sorry," he winces. "They're not always this embarrassing."

Mikasa's lips tighten, straining not to crack into a smile at the apologetic look in his eyes. She stares at a few strands of hair that fall over his face, reaching past his lips, and (with a smile that does inevitably break through, after all) she realizes that this is the longest his hair has been. Ever.

It suits him.

"That's alright," she tells him, following suit when he goes to make his way down the stairs and out of the apartment building. He trots along a few steps ahead of her while she descends rather slowly, careful not to trip over her heels. Once she's landing on the floor and looking up at him, her smile still shines on her lips. "I think I rather enjoyed myself back there."

Eren's brows float upward. "You… you did?"

"Mhm," she nods, gazing at the tendril of hair that he pulls behind his ear but ends up falling in his face again anyway.

Eren smirks, the shadow of a dimple flashing. "Nice."

For a beat, she contemplates belaboring: elaborating on Ymir's drunken zeal and Historia's constant kindness, the looks that Hitch kept giving her and the cryptic messages in her eyes. But instead, she waits for him to open the front door and hold it open and then…

"Eren?"

He sniffles, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his coat. "Yeah?"

"Why do they all call you papaya—?"

A garbled noise erupts from his throat, interrupting her.

"Please," he groans, grimacing. "Don't ask."

"Did you really…?"

"No! I don't even like papayas!"

"Are you… saying that you prefer other fruit?"

Another garbled cry.

"Mikasa, please!"

She laughs, and it's not that she's enjoying his pain, but she is.

"Then why…?"

"It's such a long story." He motions for her to go outside, and after she does, he follows while closing the door behind him. "I don't even remember it that well— But I didn't screw a fucking papaya! I swear to God, I don't even know where that 'hole in the papaya' joke came from."

She laughs again. She can't help it! Her giggles twist her face, so she covers it with a hand, and Eren wishes that she wouldn't do that, that she wouldn't keep him from something as beautiful as her silly little snorts, her sounds of happiness.

"Sorry," she says, waving a hand and making her way down the slightly icy steps. Eren matches her tentative pace. Partly, because he doesn't wanna slip and fall on his ass. Mostly, because he can't bear to take his eyes off of her.

They absorb everything they see, sucking in her presence with the hope of it being enough to sustain him until they meet again (because God knows when that will be, if ever) but somewhere deep inside him, he knows that it will never be enough. _This _will never be enough. What he has for her surpasses any hunger, any need.

He won't even pretend to deny that.

"Well…" Mikasa voices lightly, a feather above silence, pulling him from his thoughts. Looking at her now, Eren realizes—remembers—that everything about her is given off in humble portions. Her voice is quiet, her eyes soft, her presence practically invisible; never does she rise a nuance above that. Unlike him, who shouts and curses and spits and fights and smears his loud presence over everything. Mikasa blends in with the wind. Eren howls against it. He's an outburst, a frenzy, a storm. He is the fire that spreads out and consumes everything, wreaking havoc in its wake. And Mikasa is the whisper, the drizzle that soothes his reckless soul and offers peace.

It astonishes him how much she hurts him, but how at the same time, she's the one that heals him too.

And that, actually, is why this will never be enough. Nothing will ever suffice as long as there's that inevitable notion that she'll always leave again. And she will. She always will. She has to. Like clouds that stroll along the sky, coming and going, she passes through. She slips right off his fingertips, for nature dictates this is the way things must go between them for now on.

She stands with her back to him, her feet on the sidewalk, her gaze cast to some distant point ahead.

And he stares at her, wondering if fire ever yearns to be extinguished, if flames ever reach out to the sky and pray for rain. He holds on to this temporary spurt where she's still present in his life even if it means losing pieces of himself, even if it means perishing. For her, he knows, he's more than willing to die out. Maybe it's true that some lights exist only for darkness, that some hearts beat only to break. And what an honor it is to burn for her. What an honor to have his heart broken by the hands that built it on their own.

She turns around, extending her arms at her sides as if she were presenting herself to him. Every part of her is saying _look at me, I am here, I am with you_. Her feet wobble slightly in her heels and Eren smiles at her clumsiness, at the little line of imperfection in her excellent poise. And he is so glad, so damned, unbelievably glad that she is.

He is grateful.

What a masochist he is.

"We have time, don't we?" comes her voice again. She's talking about his horribly embarrassing story, the one she won't relent until she hears. "Plus, I think you really want to tell me." And he supposes that yes, they do. That yes, he does.

**—o—**

The wind sings with the Christmas carols.

Now that they're together, music carries a different sound. The holiday becomes more animated. The tiny specks of light that dot the trees and curl around their branches bloom with a little bit more shine, a little bit more passion, all because he and she are there.

They stroll along the sidewalk, and it feels as if it's just the two of them alive, everyone else having long gone to sleep in the city. Not many people are out, which is to be somewhat expected, but there's more life around them now than if there actually was. Most of the walk is made in silence, except for the five minutes it takes Eren to skim through the events of a very blurry, very drunken night.

Apparently, he'd been out with Ymir and Reiner when it happened. A few shots and some questionable liquids later, and Eren was hitting on a not-so-attractive girl. He claims to have forgotten what she looked like, but that people are indeed ten times more attractive when you're "schwasted" so it wasn't technically his fault. Mikasa nods her head in feigned understanding. (She's never been drunk, so how the hell would _she_ know?)

So then, long story short, Ymir and Reiner tried their best to get him away from the woman, which kinda sorta worked, until more shots and questionable liquids happened and Eren found himself waking up on some stranger's bed, holding back a shriek of horror when he rolled over to find "Shrek, okay. She looked like an ogre," sprawled naked in her sleep and a hickey the size of—wait for it—a papaya on his ass. Yes, his ass. Mikasa wonders if that was actually a hickey. For all she knew, he may as well have fallen and therefore acquired the mighty bruise, knowing him and all his graceful glory.

"I swear I never ran out of a place faster. I shit you not, Mikasa, I think I flew."

"You poor thing," she mutters through a smile. Eren's sigh is long.

"I know. And then…" He looks away, cringing. "Oh, God."

"Tell me."

"No. I can't. I don't want to."

"Eren. Tell me."

"And then…" The look on his face is one of complete dread. He swallows, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I showed Reiner and Ymir the bruise, and I swear they screamed so loud they alerted the whole damn city. Apparently, the thing looked like a papaya? Which I don't get? Because how can bruises look like fruit? Then Ymir said I probably got it from… Okay, she basically just said it was a hickey."

But how could a hickey be so large? And why would Eren let anyone suck on his poor butt cheek? It's not like she remembered him ever being into that kind of stuff.

"And what do you think?" she asks him, thoroughly amused. "Was it truly a hickey?"

"No. There's no way a fucking hickey could be that big. First of all, it was on my ass. There's no way in hell I'd allow someone's mouth anywhere near my ass, sober or not." Told ya. "But then, Reiner said that… the woman's mouth… was so big."

"Ew!" Mikasa exclaims, gasping. "Oh, my goodness, Eren."

"I know," he sobs, his features constricting. "God, I know. I cried."

"I'm so sorry," she laments, her eyes radiating pity. "But how does that relate to you having an affair with a papaya? I don't understand."

"I guess that one day, Ymir and Reiner told everyone the story, and somehow it came across that I fucked a papaya, instead of… yeah."

"That's not even remotely close to what actually happened, though."

"I know. But you know what? It was Reiner and Ymir retelling the story, and you can expect literally anything from those two."

"I see."

Bits of ice crackle beneath their feet, Mikasa's stilettos thumping on the sidewalk, Eren's Converse sneakers dragging along.

"But, to be frank," he reasons, holding up a finger, "I'd rather they pick on me for having an impractical fruit fetish than they know the truth. Because then, oh God. They'd never let let me live it down."

Mikasa crinkles her nose, closing her eyes and shaking her head to erase the mental image of a papaya-shaped hickey. Gross. Poor Eren. He really does have the worst luck when it comes to hook ups.

"Your friends are funny," she says, wrapping her arms around herself to contain a small shiver. She's not exactly cold but… Eren's eyes on her elicit a wave of tremors across her body. Adrenaline earthquakes, you could call them. They come from the high of being alone with him again.

"They're really not." And then silence is the music that replaces the city's muted jingles and becomes their little song.

They pass a restaurant, and Mikasa glances at the people inside. It's all mostly men, some accompanied by dainty women, but most of them sit with their gazes cast low, a glass of some alcoholic drink in their hands, their elbows propped lazily on the tables and bar they dine on. The place looks like a haven for lonely souls. It's where they all go to waste their Christmas away, to drown in a glass of their own loneliness and self-pity.

She peers over at Eren, glad that he isn't any of those men tonight.

"What about you?" he chirps suddenly, lifting his gaze from his shoes. "Have you made any friends here yet?"

Mikasa's eyes sink at the question, clinging to the ground. "No," she breathes, and Eren frowns at her, searching the eyes that won't rise to meet his. "My fiance is really the only person I talk to."

A lip curls between his teeth. He chews on it, a little annoyed and disappointed to hear that. "But… hasn't he introduced you to his friends?"

"He has. I don't think they like me, though."

"Why not?"

"I'm not exactly the most sociable person." Her voice matches her eyes, her expression. It's low. Sad. "Plus, his mother hates me, and they all love her. So that doesn't really help much."

"She hates you?" Eren queries, surprised. How could anyone possibly hate Mikasa? She hardly even talks! "Why?"

"She thinks I'm too quiet." Ah, okay. That explains it.

"What a floof."

"Yeah. She wants me to be different. Bubbly. Outgoing. Everything that I'm not, basically."

"Doesn't your fiance ever say something to her?"

"There's nothing he _can _say, you know?"

Pfft. _Bullshit,_ Eren thinks. Of course there is! How could any man stay calm knowing that his friends and mother make his fiancee uncomfortable? That they dislike her for no reason at all? If Eren were Jean or whatever the fuck his name is, he'd give them all a piece of his mind. And his fist, just for good measure.

"I don't blame them, though," Mikasa breathes, finally looking at him. "I'm not easy. I don't even know how Jean puts up with me anymore. All I do is… waste away. Maybe I do need to change. And I've been trying to. But I just… I don't know."

_Oh, dear Jesus Christ in heaven you have to be shitting me right now._

"Mikasa, there's people who are willing to love you just the way you are," he tells her, all serious and stern. "You just have to find them."

She lifts her eyes to meet his, and her heart clenches at the furrow of his brows, at the solemn line of his lips. She sighs, because Eren's always known the right thing to say to her: nothing but the truth.

"Well, they're not it," she murmurs finally, with the hope that it will bring the conversation to a close. But Eren scoffs so hard his breath fogs out.

"Well, they can go fuck themselves."

"Eren."

"It's true. You shouldn't change for other people—especially for the sake of a man. If his friends and mom don't like you, that's their problem."

Despite the severity of his words, a smile creeps its way onto her lips. She turns her face to hide it, but for some reason, she's not mad or even slightly bothered by what he's saying. If anything, she wholeheartedly agrees.

A flutter of affection beats within her. It's amazing really, how caring and honest Eren is. She thinks briefly of his scars. He's covered in them, and yet he's so gentle. Life has been harsh to him from the very start, and he's got the wounds to prove it. But where some people grow cold and sour and distant as a result of their struggles, Eren's compassion merely grows. The more he aches, the kinder he is. The more Mikasa shrivels into herself, the softer his demeanor grows to pry her shell wide open.

"Hey," he says, eyes alight with an idea. "What are you doing for New Year's?"

Mikasa's eyes widen at the change of topic. "Oh. Well, Jean has to work, so I think I'm just going to spend it at home with our cat."

Eren quirks a brow. "You have a cat?"

"Yes. His name's Jiji. He's kind of a… scaredy cat," he laughs forcibly at that, which makes Mikasa roll her eyes, "and he's always getting his head stuck in things. Particularly, tubes of Pringles."

"Sounds like a dumb cat."

Mikasa shrugs a shoulder. "He's not so bad. Keeps me company."

"You know, if you want," he voices slowly, "Sasha's having a get-together at her place on New Year's. Everyone will be there. You can come if you want."

Suddenly, Mikasa stops cold on her feet.

Ah, yes. There it is. The doe-eyed look she's always wearing lately.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," she says, exactly as he predicted that she would.

"It's a chance to make new friends," Eren murmurs after coming to a stop as well. "It could be fun."

"But they're your friends, Eren."

"I can share 'em."

"But…" she bites her lip, and he wants so badly to like, rip it off or something so that she doesn't do that anymore. (Okay, maybe not rip it off. But yeah.) "Do you think they'll even want me there?"

"Of course!" he nearly shouts. "Trust me, Mikasa. If they can put up with Hitch, they can put up with anyone."

This gets her to smile a little. Good.

"I feel like she hates me."

Eren sucks in a breath, not even bothering to contradict her. "She hates everyone."

"Not you."

"Oh-ho, _especially _me," he laughs, and it's true. Why she hasn't just shot him or chopped his dick off in his sleep is a mystery to him, considering all the times he's purposely made her life impossible just for the fun of seeing her pissed off. "Don't let her get to you. She's bitchy even to the people that she likes. But she has a good heart, trust me. We've been friends for years for a reason."

They start walking again, and his eyes never leave her. He's realizing lately, that they've developed a dependency on her. When he's looking at Mikasa, the stars hold the moon, and the ground is solid beneath his feet, and he can stand tall and strong because life makes sense. Everything makes sense, if only for a second.

"I don't know, Eren," she sniffles, developing a runny nose. Lightheartedly, Eren pats her on the back, and it's kinda funny when she stiffens. Funny, because her eyes go huge. Funny, because he almost can't believe that he just touched her. Funny, because with the way his eyes admire from afar, one would think that making contact with her wouldn't feel this simple. Sparks flying, fireworks exploding, electricity surging through him—there's honestly none of that. It's just his hand on her back, touching a solid object. He thinks he might just go ahead and touch fire next, touch the sharpest edge of a knife. Because holding what kills you shouldn't feel this right.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to, but it's a choice." His hand has long retreated, but her shoulders are still stiff. "Our doors are always open for you, Mikasa. Any friend of mine is a friend of theirs."

"We're friends?" she peeps, sniffling again. When he looks at her again, he sees that in her eyes there's a different kind of startle. They hold tenderness now. Care.

"I don't know," he croons, struck by her expression. "Are we?"

The smile she gives him makes her eyes disappear. "Sure."And holy shit, he could honestly cry, she's so beautiful.

"Well, there you go. Your first friend in the city," he nearly chokes, but manages his best smile. Her eyes are still crinkled and her smile is still big, and Mikasa should smile more often and with this much intent, because the light giggle that follows puts the sun in place, makes the sky shift and the Earth keep spinning.

"Someone I already knew," she quips, her smile fading. Eren throws up his hands with a dry laugh.

"Don't sound so disappointed."

"I'm not!" she's quick to gasp. "I'm really happy that we're friends again."

"Me too. Otherwise, you'd be fucking helpless."

Mikasa bumps her shoulder into his, making him stumble lazily. "Harr harr," she smiles. Eren smiles too.

"Aren't you cold?"

"No," is her little sigh. "But I can't feel my toes anymore."

He peeks down at her feet, noting that they don't wobble anymore. Good for her. She's getting the hang of walking in those sharp-heeled contraptions. Honestly, he's always loved her feet, 'cause they're so cute and tiny. But Mikasa always found that gross, and crinkled her nose at her "nasty, crooked ballerina toes" that Eren liked to pinch because it made her laugh, and her laugh is the single greatest sound in the universe so he'd make it his damn mission to memorize all her ticklish spots.

And he did. God, did he memorize them.

He wonders if they're still the same. And does Jean ever bother to exploit them? Does he ever dig his fingers into her ribs and make her laugh until she's screaming? Does he ever sneak his hand into the crook on her neck when she's busy doing something just to see her squirm and get distracted and try to shrug him off? Does he ever slip his palms behind the crooks of her knees and watch her melt against him? The little dimples on her lower back were Eren's personal favorite. Especially when she'd let him trace them with his tongue. Haha.

_Fuck my life._

"Want some hot chocolate?" he asks, trying not to think of his tongue on her butt dimples because it's totally not okay to think about licking engaged women's butt dimples, Eren. No bueno. Stop.

"Where?"

"Rose Park has this little stand—"

"Perfect." Mikasa hooks her arm around his and whisks him away to cross the street beside them. "Let's go."

"Ah—" Holy shit, holy fliggity shit on a pogo stick _she is holding his arm_. His arm. Holding it. Her. Eren's heart shoots up to his throat. "Alright, then," and he could honestly choke on it. Holy fucking fuck, he could choke on it and throw it up because Mikasa's touching him, okay. Mikasa fucking Ackerman!

_Third or fourth or I'm not exactly sure but whatever time she touches me:_

_To pull me across the street after I'm done thinking about pressing my tongue on the dimples above her ass._

_Nice._

They arrive at the park, and what Mikasa supposes were once lush rose bushes now stand bare along the walkways made of cobblestone, their emaciated branches looking like they could crack under the slightest weight of snow.

She lets go of his arm, and they walk side by side in stiff silence. A man plays a saxophone somewhere near a bench, a woman shouts for her dog, a couple prance along hand in hand. They cross a bridge made of stone, and a half-frozen pond sprawls beneath it.

This park is like its own little world. The hooting and tooting of cars is muffled in the distance, the light of the buildings replaced by that of the trees and lampposts erected all around. In its detachment from the rest of the world and its wealth in nature, Park Rose feels like a gasp of fresh air in the endless cloud of smoke that is the daily life of a city.

The silence Eren and Mikasa share this time is comfortable, the kind that can only be appreciated when there is nothing more to say. She could comment on the park. He could comment on her grabbing his arm the way she did earlier. They could both speak if they really wanted to, but they don't. The noise of mild activity around them is enough for now.

Until they reach what looks like a humble little coffee stand inhabited by an elderly man with a beanie hat and a thick gray mustache above his upper lip, whom recognizes Eren the moment he sees him.

"Eren!" the man cackles, his smile creasing wrinkles around his eyes. "Merry Christmas! It's good to see you!"

"Merry Christmas, Gramps," he grins, slapping a hand on the metal counter. "They got you working on a holiday?"

"What can I say?" the old man shrugs. "It's better than nothing." His soft eyes glance over at Mikasa, growing huge the moment they swallow what they see. "And who's the lovely young lady?"

"Mikasa. She's a friend."

"Hello," she waves. The man's eyes shrink to slits with a pleased smile.

"Well, I must say: you are the single most beautiful thing I've seen all day."

"I'm gonna tell Linda you said that," Eren quips calmly. Pixis (that's what his name tag says) barks out a laugh.

"I'm merely observing, kid."

"Alright, Grandpa Dot." Eren thumps his fist in the counter top. "That'll be the usual for me and a hot chocolate for the lady."

"With marshmallows?"

"Yea-up! And whipped cream."

"How much?"

"Plenty."

Mikasa looks at Eren. He shoots her a wink.

"Coming right up."

"I'll pay you back," she whispers to him as their beverages are being prepared. He pulls out his wallet and gives her a bored look.

"Don't you dare."

The girl purses her lips, sighing through her nose before knocking him one right on the shoulder.

"Ow!" Eren claps a hand over the potentially bruising area and gapes at the old man. "Are you seeing this?"

Pixis clicks his tongue and waves an empty cup at her. "She's an abuser."

"She is!"

"I am not."

"Spike her hot chocolate, Gramps. Do it."

"No!"

"Sure, but I'll have to charge you extra."

"Please," Mikasa begs, "not the hot chocolate."

"Don't worry, hun," he says, shaking a can of whipped cream and holding a hand up to the side of his mouth. "Eren's always liked rougher women."

Mikasa's eyes go wide at the sexual innuendo, noticing the way he pumps the can. Despite himself, Eren snickers loudly.

"Don't listen to him," but he can't stop laughing.

_Great_, Mikasa thinks. _I am surrounded by perverts._

Pixis and Eren chat for a little bit, catching up on things like sports (_ew_) and the older man's pregnant daughter (_aww_). They seem to share a past, and ask each other rather personal questions. When the drinks are prepared and paid for, both men wave out their respective goodbyes, promising to meet up on a day when they're both free of work to catch up over some coffee (but not drinks, apparently; the old man claims to have been sober for six years now). Eren calls him "Gramps", Pixis calls him "son", and Mikasa, for some reason, can't stop smiling.

Her cheeks hurt.

"How is it?" Eren asks her when he sees her taking a sip of her drink. They're walking again.

"Good," she nods, and it doesn't taste as great as the hot chocolate Eren had prepared for her back at his apartment, but it's still good enough. "Why is it that every time I see you you try to feed me chocolate?"

Eren smirks and makes an "I dunno" sound, but when he takes a sip of his own drink, she swears she hears him say under his breath, "You could use the pounds."

She squints her eyes at him.

He gives her a dazzling grin.

And it's very hard to be annoyed at a face like that. Truly.

"How's your coffee?"

A shrug. "It's alright."

"Don't twitch."

"I'll try not to."

With a sudden flash of dread, Mikasa realizes where they're going. Eren's leading them right back out of the park.

No.

No, no.

She doesn't want to leave yet.

"Can we sit?" she blurts out suddenly. Eren blinks.

"Uh… Sure, yeah."

They spot a bench nearby, and she's quick to trot up to it and sit down before anyone else can claim it. "These heels," she sighs when he sits beside her, a hand rubbing her ankle. "They're killing me."

"I don't know how you even manage, honestly." Eren's eyes are fixed on something in the distance, but they fall on her after a minute or two. She's staring at him. Blatantly staring. "What?"

"I just…" Mikasa shakes her head, smiling softly. "I just thought of something."

"What is it?"

"All this. It's so familiar."

"What do you mean?"

"You and me, sitting on a bench, waiting for nothing in particular." Her eyes go cloudy with memory. They reminisce. "Kinda like when we were kids?"

Eren throws his head back, gazing at the sky. "Ah, yeah," he says, a cloud dissipating from his mouth. He spots not a single star above them, all of them buried by a murky sheet of light pollution. "That's right."

"Except," Mikasa breathes, mimicking him. She too leans her head back and stares at the massive sheet of gray. "We're not kids anymore."

"Nope." He sighs, closing his eyes. Mikasa turns her head to face him, gawking at his presence by her side. It's almost like she can't fathom that he's there with her, that they're here, that they've grown into adults, into two functioning people. Her eyes run along his neck, the protruding bump of his adam's apple, the tip of his nose and the dense length of his eyelashes.

A single hair slips out of his ponytail.

She watches that too.

He's so close she could touch him, feel the warmth of his skin, and it almost appalls her how different he is from the child she first met when they were nine in a park very much like this one. With a soft smile that he can't see, she thinks of little Eren with his bright eyes and loud voice and incessant cussing, the scrapes on his knees and the dried-up blood he'd failed to wash off in time. His hands are curled around the paper coffee cup, and she spots the scars on them, imagines the calluses on his palms and fingertips from restless days of strumming away in his guitar, or drawing out of boredom, or holding his mother's feeble hand—not that the latter would cause him any external wear, but hands always have a way of showing how a person's had to live their lives. She thinks back on when she'd shaken hands with Ymir, how her mighty grip spoke of years of struggle and survival, and she hasn't touched Eren's hands lately but when they'd briefly made contact with hers back when he was offering her _Illusions_, she remembers them feeling soft, warm. Inviting.

"God…" he groans suddenly, making her blink. "Our bench. I wonder if it's still there?"

Mikasa's thoughtful for a moment, staring at his knuckles. Funny that they have no scars, since they're the single most abused part of his body. How many times hadn't she seen them scraped absolutely raw, bleeding after being reeled into walls, floors, other people. And yet, they've always healed, erased the signs that show he's always fought back. Always.

"I wouldn't know," she whispers, and after a silent beat or two, his head turns to look at her. Even his eyes seem to gasp.

"Hey, maybe this could be our new bench!"

"Our new bench?"

Eren's eyes grow even wider. "Fuck yeah!"

Smiling at his enthusiasm, Mikasa nods her head. "Okay."

"What should we call it?"

"Hmm…" She holds the tip of her index finger to her chin, thinking. "The… Eren… and Mikasa Bench?"

Eren rises to his feet, turning to extend his arms in dramatic presentation. "Ladies and gentlemen," he declares to an invisible crowd. "This bench has officially been named: The Eren and Mikasa Bench."

Mikasa crinkles her nose. "No."

"No what?"

"Never mind. It deserves a better name than that."

"Like?"

"The… Bench… Bench…?"

He snorts. "The Shit Bench."

"The I'll Punch You in the Face Bench."

"The Bench of Death."

"The Avenge Bench."

"Avenge Bench?" Eren sputters, barking out a loud laugh that makes Mikasa titter. "That sounds like some crazy _Star Wars _sequel or something."

She crosses one leg over the other, lowering her voice to sound like the narrator of one of those movie trailers. "Star Wars: Return of the Avenge Bench."

Eren mimics her tone, sounding even deeper. "Luke, I am your bench father."

"Seek the Avenge Bench. Go."

"You! Shall not! PAAASS!"

"Eren. That's from _Lord of the Rings._"

"Oh, shit. Yeah."

Mikasa _tsk_'s in disappointment, shaking her head. "One does not simply accidentally quote _Lord of the Rings._"

"One does not simply take that line seriously anymore," he scoffs, taking a sip of his coffee.

"True."

"Yep."

"God," she laughs, slapping a hand on her cheek. "We're terrible."

Eren slumps back beside her with a soft groan, smirking. "You're the one who suggested we call this bench the Avenge Bench."

"You said 'bench father'."

"Mikasa. Avenge Bench, though."

"You're the one who started talking about naming a bench in the first place."

"You're asking to get hypothermia in that dress."

"You accidentally quoted Gandalf thinking it was _Star Wars_."

"You need to be quiet."

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I think I'll go to Sasha's New Year's party."

"Wait." Eren straightens, his eyes boring into hers. "Are you serious?"

Mikasa shrugs a shoulder, tilting her head to the side. "What's there to lose?"

"Yes!" He beams so brightly, even his little dimple shines. "That's the spirit!"

"I'm excited."

"Me too!"

"Will there be music?"

"Oh yeah."

"And dancing?"

"Noting that Ymir and Hitch will be going, yes."

She gives a long, wistful sigh, her rigid posture wilting slightly. "I haven't danced in ages."

"You can dance with them. But watch out. Ymir swears she's a break dancer but," he pulls a face. "She ain't."

"Will there be alcohol?"

"You're joking, right?" She's dead serious. "Yes, Mikasa. There will be alcohol."

"You know," she whispers, pulling her hair over her left shoulder. "I still don't drink."

Eren watches her take a sip of her hot chocolate, following the length of her ponytail, the curl that coils at the end. "Still following those strict diets of yours?"

"What can I say?" she shrugs, glancing at the paper cup in her hands. "They're too much of a habit now."

He sighs, watching her back align again, as rigid and poised as usual. Eren's own posture slumps even more with an arm bent on the back of the bench. "You don't have to drink if you don't want to. I'll make sure no one pressures you if that's the case."

She gives him a grateful smile. "Thank you."

"No prob."

"What should I wear?"

"To the party?" She nods, and if it were up to him, he'd have her wear… Well, never mind. "Anything. Whatever it is you girls wear to go out."

She blinks. "What do girls wear to go out?"

"I… don't know?"

Mikasa pouts. "Poop."

"Jeans," he settles, downing a swig of his drink. "Just wear jeans. It doesn't matter."

"Okay. I haven't gone to a normal party in years. They've all been… well," she motions vaguely to her fancy attire.

Eren simpers. "I think you'll have fun, Mikasa. My friends are a little on the weird side, but they're all good people." He lifts his gaze from the ground to meet her eyes, and Mikasa has always hated snowless Christmases, for they feel bereft of joy without snow. The silhouettes of denuded trees have always felt daunting, their scraggly bodies symbolizing loss, loneliness. But tonight, the world feels different. The trees are clad in dozens of small lights, all culminating to this sliver of space brought to earth, Eren and Mikasa's own little universe. They blur like stars in the distance, surrounding them in the background that reflects in Eren's glinting eyes. And he says, "I'll make sure not even a second goes by that you feel lonely. I promise." And Mikasa feels dizzy from her lashes to her toes because she doesn't deserve him. Nobody does.

"You're too good to me, Eren," she says sadly. All he does is shrug a shoulder and laugh.

If she could take that sound, his laughter, and chop it up into a million tiny pieces to scatter across the night sky, stars would be more radiant. She's sure of it.

"It's what friends do."

Mikasa sighs. He doesn't get it. Of course he doesn't. There's goodness engraved in him so deeply, he doesn't see his generosity as acts of kindness, only as the natural thing to do. He doesn't get that Mikasa hasn't had a friend in ages, that Jean is the nicest person she knows, that him being so selfless, so honest, so caring, carves a crater in her heart. And she thinks again of how much they both have changed, but how some things aren't all that different. Eren still possesses the altruism that he had as a child, the same selfless care for weaker things. And with childish wonder and amazement, Mikasa allows herself to be the weaker one tonight, to succumb to the palpitations of her heart, the mighty booms that reverberate and remind her she's alive, that there's still so much more left of her life worth living.

It's when a single flake of snow falls between them that her eyes tear from his to gaze around. Another snowflake follows, and then some more, until soon they're too many to count and Mikasa's holding out her hands and giggling. "It's snowing!" she exclaims. And it's dazzling really: the lights, the flakes, her smile. Eren closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, discovering a mighty boom of his own pounding away in his chest.

When his eyes bloom open, it's as if the world too takes a deep breath. On every tiny flake of snow clinging to her lashes, Eren finds the scattered pieces of his soul. If he were to gather her, all of her, in his hands, he would garner himself as an entire being. He feels the need to hold her, bring her close to his chest, feel her heartbeat and remind himself that he has one too. He is lost somewhere within her, yearning to be found, and watches as traces of himself peek through her spirit—for in her laugh, he finds his breath. In her eyes, his own reflection. In her voice, he finds the meaning of his life.

How can he live without her?

A life without Mikasa is like having lungs but no air.

Specks of white meet her inky hair, and she's too busy blowing the snowflakes off of the palms of her hands to see it. Her rosy lips pucker and her cheeks puff out, and when a mirage of white flecks dance away from her fingers, her eyes crinkle with delight. "Did you see that?" she asks him. Eren nods and snorts at her ecstatic little squeal. Ah, he'd almost forgotten. Mikasa loves the snow.

It's a breath, a whisper within him.

Unbidden, uncouth…

_I love you._

Eren's stunned in the sudden revelation, overwhelmed with shame. Layers of his heart slowly peel away and fall, until he's naked to the core and all that's left of him is oozing, throbbing honesty. He hopes that somehow she can hear him. That somehow, she's able to respond. Through his soul, his essence tells her: _I love you, Mikasa Ackerman. Your happiness is my happiness. Your life is my life. I live for the moments in which you smile, for your little bursts of incandescent joy. You hold the sky over my head, you are the veins that keep life flowing within me._

_So live._

_Please, live the best life that you can. For the both of us. Live._

With a breath that billows as steam, he rips his eyes away from her and stares at some blurry point in space. There's a sinking feeling in his chest, and his hands reach out a second too late to save himself. He's tumbling, fumbling, falling to his knees. He'll be damned, truly. The fool. He has fallen in love—all over again—with the girl with the snowflakes in her hair.

"I think we should be heading back," she mutters, smoothing down the skirt of her dress to brush off some flakes. "Jean will be calling me soon."

And just when he felt like flying, she brings him crashing to the ground.

"Right, yeah. Let's go then." Eren rises to his feet, finishing the last of his coffee and disposing it in a nearby trash can before stretching his arms over his head. Sighing, he glances up at the sky. The snow is really coming down now, flakes dusting kisses on his cheeks and face, consoling him in a way. Mikasa trots up to stand beside him, and without another word they both commence to walk. It's not until some moments later that he realizes he's all on his own.

Peering over his shoulder, Eren finds her standing with her back to him, her gaze fixed on the bench she cannot bring herself to abandon.

"Hey, slowpoke," he calls, making her jump. "You coming?"

"Yes!" She whips around and her heels knock on the cobblestone floor, a hasty gallop of wobbling feet to approach him. "Sorry about that."

"What were you doing back there?" he asks when they're walking together again. The girl merely shakes her head and waves him off.

"Nothing."

He will never tell her this, but every second that he's with her, he has to bite back his emotions and cram them into the farthest reaches of himself, pretend that he doesn't ache to uncap the affluent current of affection that's itching to come out.

And she will never tell him this, but Mikasa was memorizing the exact location of their new bench. She too crams her emotions into a very private cellar within herself. But, unlike him, she honors and cherishes them intensely.

They fill her soul.

**—o—**

Life is a perpetual string of letting go. One after the other, people leave. We are all born alone. We all die alone. The blurry spectacle in between what we call life is where the illusion of company deceives us.

You fall in love, you make a friend, you grow attached to someone. You're built by the hands that raise you, the hands that abandon you, the hands that hold you, that tear you up. And in the end, all you have is yourself to fall back on, nothing more. God doesn't care that you're weak, that you're broken, that you can't stand the mere sight of yourself. You are stuck with who you are forever, until your lungs draw their last breath and your eyes catch their final glimpse of light. So it's silly to cling on to people, to temporary masses that will eventually decompose.

And yet, Eren wishes with everything in him that it didn't have to be this way at all. That he could strap Mikasa to his being, link her heart to his and feel it beating, synchronize its rhythm to his own.

But it doesn't work that way. Life doesn't work that way. Sometimes, the people you choose don't choose you. Sometimes, you gotta drop them off at fancy hotels so they can return to their fiances, so they can go to their beds, not yours. Not you. _She doesn't want you._

"Will you come in with me?" Mikasa asks him when they stand outside the grand doors of Sina Plaza Hotel. "It's intimidating, that place." Eren stares at her for a moment, unsure of what to say. "It's only to the front desk," she continues, standing so close that he can smell her breath. Chocolate. She smells like hot chocolate. "I just… I'm afraid that if I walk in there on my own I'll turn right back around and never come back again. I need someone to keep me in check."

A lazy smirk curves his lips. "I'll keep you in check."

Mikasa's eyes look up at him, her feet a mere step away from his. "Thank you," and then she turns around and Eren's gaze stays glued on her, dependent on her, hopelessly clinging to this temporary mass will inevitably decompose.

She holds the door open for him, and he says thanks. He waits for her to catch up before a man with a thick foreign accent approaches them and says hello.

"Mrs. Kirschtein," he smiles. Mikasa answers to the name.

"Yes."

"Your coat, madam."

She slips it off along with her purse and gives the man both items.

"I will store this away," he tells her, "Mr. Kirschtein happily awaits your return."

"Thank you," she says. The man gives a slight bow before leaving.

And Eren is so direly, inexplicably stuck between wanting to scream at the unfairness—the sheer, humiliating unfairness—of how incredible she looks tonight and just straight up calling it quits and never returning to her or this godforsaken place again. But Eren is a masochist. And Eren wants to stay. For a second longer, stay. For a second longer, watch her.

"I have your book," she turns to him and says, smoothing a hand down her flat tummy. Eren's eyes fucking hurt from how hard they're fighting not to stray to all the places that they want to go but know they shouldn't. "I'm not done with it yet, but I can give it back to you now if you want?"

"Nah," he says, staring at the chandelier that hangs over their heads so as to not look at her. "Keep it."

"But…" she starts. Eren gives her a look that makes her bite her lip and nod her head quickly.

"Thank you," Mikasa leans in close to whisper. Chocolate. Fucking chocolate. Everything about her makes him think of chocolate. "I must say, thanks to you, my Christmas this year has been very interesting."

"Glad I could help," he says to her, and he can't help but think about the irony of it all. Six Christmases ago, she was all his. Six Christmases ago, this day was way more than just _interesting_. He'd delved his tongue between her thighs, hooked her legs around his waist and made her come for him—and now all these things are so far out of reach, so forbidden, they make something dark in him stir.

He hopes that, in his place, her fiance makes love to her tonight. Because she deserves it. Because she looks stunning and she always looks stunning and she's the type of girl who deserves to be made love to every single night, to hear how beautiful she is until she believes it.

His cheeks feel warm and a trickle of embarrassment travels down his body. Teeth sink into his bottom lip as if that alone is enough to keep him from his thoughts, but it's useless.

In mere seconds, Eren imagines her ebony dress bunched around her hips, the top part undone and draped around her skinny waist and the taste of her soft skin, her legs straddling his lap and her fingers in his hair and her panties pulled to one side so he can—wait, is she even wearing any right now? It doesn't look like it. Shit.

God, he's fucked up.

It's all wrong, but still he finally lets his eyes travel to all those secret places. And he can make out the peaks of her breasts raised under the fabric of her dress, the fleshy mound of side boob peeking out and the glorious slope of her back leading to the supple curve of her ass. God, if only he could be so disgustingly selfish and have her tonight, celebrate this cruel anniversary the same way that it ended. It's a sin, the worst kind of sin to even think it, but Eren's always been a sinner.

So—selfishly—he imagines her in his arms instead, imagines her neck stretching and dense pants falling from her lips and her hips rutting to bring him closer, deeper, and her voice filling his ears as she pours herself into him, holding him tighter with her hair and dress a mess and nothing in her mind but primal, blinding hunger, the burst of color on her chest and cheeks as she throws her head back and cries out and holy shit, Eren's going to hell. He's so sure of it.

But then Mikasa looks at him and smiles, and he feels a dull pang in his heart, and with great sadness he realizes that he's already there.

"Thank you for walking me," she says as if he were a good person, as if he weren't just imagining what fucking her would be like. As if he weren't trying not peek down at her legs because then his immediate thoughts would be his hand pushed up between them, her porcelain thighs spreading and the long, drawn out moan she'd always give when his tongue met her core and did her just the way she liked it, slow at first, then faster, until she's an arching, whimpering mess and she starts begging, gripping his hair and breathing her pretty little words, beckoning with her index finger for him to "come here" and kiss her, let their tongues revel in her taste. And fuck, okay, now he can't stop thinking of her that way and she's still smiling and Eren's awfully sexually frustrated for someone who just got laid last night.

"Are you okay?" she asks him, furrowing a brow.

"Yep!" He wants to suck your tits and have his tongue inside you but no, yeah, he's great.

"Oh," she gasps suddenly, and Eren winces from the sound. Ridiculously, he wonders if she's somehow read his mind, discovered all the filth that teems his brain just by looking at him. But the hand that burns him through his clothes when it lands on his forearm is trusting and faint, oblivious to his foul imagination. "Hold on. Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

And then she's off before Eren can even say anything.

With a sigh, his shoulders fall. Before the ache can begin to form, before the blatant hurt of missing her can take root inside him, his eyes latch onto her diminishing frame, watching her leave him to stand alone amidst the grandeur of this large lobby.

How long is it until he's hearing the faint tap, tap, tap of her heels approaching? Who fucking knows, honestly. He's busy counting the petals on a painting of a hydrangea on the wall right next to him when he hears her lisp, breathless voice rising above any other noise.

"Hello." The word pulls him back to her.

"Hey," he whispers when she smiles at him, her chest bloating with an inhale and sinking with a sigh.

_Don't look at her boobs, don't look at her boobs, don't look at her fucking boobs Eren I'm gonna beat the shit out of you._

Suddenly, a pastry of some sort appears between them, resting in her outstretched hand. It's pink and puffy and it kinda looks like a cookie but it also looks like a macaroon. She's offering it to him.

"What's this?" he queries dumbly.

"It's a cookie," she answers sweetly. Eren takes it in his hand.

"I… can see that."

"You let me keep your book, I give you a cookie," Mikasa reasons, and he kinda wants to punch himself in the face because it's honestly unfair how this woman can transgress from sexy to adorable in a matter of seconds. She will be the death of him. She honestly will.

"Thanks," he says, even though the thing doesn't look all that appetizing. But it was given to him by her. That alone is enough to whet his appetite.

Suddenly, weird, puffed up macaroon cookies are his favorite.

"Merry Christmas," the girl smiles. Green eyes trace her lips, her nose, the flakes of snow that melt into her hair and dust her ponytail. For the first time in his life, Eren Jaeger envies snowflakes.

"Merry Christmas, Mikasa," he replies. She gives him a little grin, and this is the most he's seen her smile in ages. Not that he's complaining, of course.

If it were up to him, he'd have her smiling forever.

If it were up to him, he'd have her sprawled naked on his bed, because her dress is really pretty but nothing in the world is prettier than bare, vulnerable Mikasa. And the funny thing is, he's not even thinking about doing dirty things to her anymore. Just watching her sleep, watching her chest sway, tracing the little notches of her spine while she dreams and spills her hair and scent all over his pillows… That's good enough. He could spend the rest of his life never touching her as long as he could get a glimpse of that again.

"Are you… walking the whole way back?" she asks him. Eren's begun to make his way back towards the door.

"Yeah, I am."

"Do you want me to get a cab for you?"

This makes him stall and turn to look at her. She's wringing her hands together, biting the inside of her cheek.

"I'll be fine," he assures her. Mikasa's eyebrows scrunch together in concern.

"Are you sure? Is it safe to walk like that all on your own?"

"I'll be okay."

Her eyes flicker over his face for a moment, searching, and Eren wishes he could read her mind, find out what she's thinking. Her expression is warm, but now suddenly her eyes have fixed themselves on the floor, obscuring her gaze from him.

"Well," she tells him finally. "Goodbye now."

She spins and then his eyes are on her back, admiring the contours of her shoulder blades. And the further she walks, the less he can make them out. She's fading away.

"Wait," Eren breathes before he can catch the word between his teeth, letting it slip out in a breath she somehow hears despite it being very quiet.

She stops.

"Yes?" Mikasa turns slightly to look at him, the light of the chandelier spilling down her frame. Her body is a painting, the culmination of lines and shapes that can dumbfound any artist.

_Please don't go,_ his heart now begs, grousing in the misery of living without her. _Please. Stay with me. I want you. I need you. I don't even care that you don't want me back just please, please, please stay with me._

Her eyes are calm and eternal, those two pools of ink that have always held the world.

And in the air, there's a promise:

_Always, Eren. I will always be with you._

And then, slowly, the gloomy veil of despondence lifts from his eyes, revealing the light of a new hope.

"I'll… see you New Year's eve then?"

Mikasa smiles at the floor, smoothing that unruly lock of hair behind her ear again. Her hand looks so gentle. And her shoulders. And her knees. And what would it be like to kiss every fingertip, every eyelash, every point of her hips, and arms, and back? "Yes, of course," she whispers, the same tone she'd used all those years ago to promise that she loved him. (And would her mouth still taste the same without the words "I love you" in it?)

"Okay, great," Eren nods, heat rising to his face. He doesn't care that he's blushing, or that his hands shake and sweat, or that she makes him weak and the knees and lightheaded.

He's happy.

He's happy because there's the promise of seeing her again.

"See you later, Eren," the girl waves.

"See ya," he waves back, and this time, it's him who walks away and leaves her staring.

He doesn't see how she stands, clinging to his dwindling presence. She doesn't move, or breathe, or think until there's no more of him to see, no more of him to experience. With every breath from her lungs, there's an echo:

Always.

Always.

Always.

_I will always be with you. _

And the gasps that fill her chest somehow reach him. He feels them, feels her air. He breathes. He knows. Her promise is a breeze. It carries them.

Walking, Eren glances at the cookie in his hand. He thinks of his mother, who baked the most delicious cookies in the entire world. He bites into it, and it's not nearly as good as hers, not even close, but it serves its consolation. Two more bites later and the thing's nearly gone. He's always eaten too fast; Ma used to get on his case for it. He misses her. He wishes she was here. If his mother knew all the perverted things he had been thinking tonight, she'd whack his bum. Hard. Give him a bruise even bigger than a papaya.

Eren smirks, imagining two big golden eyes peering down at him from the heavens. _I've raised you better than that,_ she'd say, then pull his ear or something. And he'd laugh, like he is right now. Because it's true. She really did raise him better.

If only he could call her up and tell her everything that happened tonight, recount the story he wants so desperately to share. He hopes now, more than ever, that there truly is a place called Heaven up above. His mother would surely be there.

"Mom, can you believe that?" Eren grunts, a nonbeliever talking to the angel he hopes is somewhere in the clouds. "I still love her. How sad is that? I'm scared to shit but at the same time, you always taught me to fight for what I want. And I want her." He sighs at the loneliness that surrounds him, with not a soul present in the streets. "I wish you were here, Ma. You'd know exactly what to tell me."

Snowflakes gather on the fibers of his coat, on the surface on his lips, tickling the skin of his nose and latching onto the preens of his eyelashes. Somehow, just somehow, Eren knows she's listening, smiling down at him right now.

He smiles back.

* * *

**A/N:** Don't forget to share your thoughts and leave a review! But please be nice. I've been getting a lot of mean reviews lately and they make me weep like the crybaby that I am. Coughs.

**PS: **Remember the "grandpa bench" from last chapter? That's the bench that Eren and Mikasa call "our bench" here. More later.


	12. Lessons on How to Save a Life

**A/N: **This is it guys. After this chapter, it's one more childhood chapter and then we're on to their teenage years. For those of you that are aware of the rough patch I've been going through and have shown your support, thank you. I didn't give up on writing these past few weeks because of you. Huggies and kissies to all.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _Lessons on How to Save a Life_ :.

.: Chapter XII :.

* * *

"Ow, ow, ow! Mikasa, that's my ear!"

"I know it's your ear, you poopie."

"Ow! Mikasa!"

"Don't you 'Mikasa' me."

"I'm sorry! Whatever I did, I'm sorry!"

"Armin Arlert." The boy flinched at her tone. "You lied to me."

"I didn't!" he squeaked, blue eyes fretful. "I just never mentioned it, that's all!"

"I nearly died of a heart attack today!" Mikasa exclaimed, relinquishing her hold on his ear. "Eren's my neighbor. My _neighbor!_ How could you go so long without telling me?"

"I just thought… I just…"

"Now Mama wants me to take the bus everyday to keep him company. Every day! Every morning with Eren! Armin, how could you?"

"Both of you need friends!" he cried, rubbing his ear. It still stung. "And what better way to get you two to talk to each other?"

"Maybe a _normal_ way?" Mikasa proclaimed, stomping her foot, pacing. "One that isn't a _scheme_?"

Armin shook his head. "Negative. It wouldn't have worked. You're both too stubborn."

"Too stubborn?"

"Hasn't he been making you lunches? And you guys did, what, pass notes? It's not enough!"

"Armin."

"What?"

"You could've just been honest."

"No. You would've avoided ever going near his house if you knew. Too shy, too shy."

"Armin."

"What?"

"Why do you want us to be friends so bad?"

"You're both lonely."

"I'm not lonely, I'm nine!"

"Well, he is. He needs a good friend."

"He has you."

"Not enough. His mom is sick, Mikasa. She's dying."

Silence.

"She's… dying?"

"I… I feel so bad for him. He has friends, yeah, but they're not special. He needs special friends. Like you and me."

"But…"

"Please, Mikasa. I love Eren, but sometimes, I worry that he goes too long without anyone to keep him safe."

"Safe?"

"Yes. He's dangerous. His heart's too big, so he hurts a lot, loves a lot. Everything is a lot, too much! He needs saving sometimes, people to keep him sane."

"And you think I can _save_ him?"

"You can try."

"I'm no hero! I'm just a girl!"

"You can be a friend. It's the same thing, Mikasa."

"I don't know how to be a friend."

And then he grinned. "I'll teach you!"

**—o—**

Lesson Number One:

One does not, and this means _never_, ignore thy neighbor when waiting at thy bus stop.

And she wanted to. Boy, did Mikasa want to pretend that Eren didn't appear every. Single. Morning.

Armin was right. She's too shy, too shy. Her heart was up to her eyeballs by the time she made it to the bus stop, beating so darn ferociously that she could taste her heartbeat like bile at the back of her throat.

Eren was already there, of course, with his butt planted on that rickety, old grandpa bench.

The grand willow tree behind him hunched over the quiet spot where he sat, its leaves swaying subtly in the cool autumn wind and breathing sibilant hymns that kept him safe. He looked as if he belonged to another plane of existence. It was only when Mikasa drew closer, as leaves crumpled underfoot, and she found herself under the shade of this massive tree that she joined him, and this little sliver of the planet became her world.

Her keen ears caught every hiss of the leaves, every breath from him and her and Mama, whom greeted him as soon as she saw him, and even though his mouth was full with what looked like his breakfast, Eren nodded and spoke through a mouth full of dry Lucky Charms.

"Good mornin'," he said, still chewing. "Morning, Mikasa."

She opened her mouth. A draft came out. Cold and sharp. Voiceless.

_Poop on a stick. _Why did Armin always have to be right? She had the social skills of a carrot.

"Mikasa," Mama voiced softly, patting her back. "Why don't you go sit with Eren while I go call your father?"

Well, hmm, lovely question. Why don't pigs rain from the sky? Why don't people have three eyes? Why do farts make bubbles underwater? It's just the way things go!

"Go on." She dug a hand into her bra, pulled out her flip phone. "Go."

"But, Mama, I'm scared," the girl hissed, her back to Eren.

"Scared?" her mother scoffed. "Nonsense. He's just a boy."

"But…"

Mama's attention shifted to her phone. She punched in numbers on the keypad, buttons beeping with each digit she pressed. Mikasa's eye twitched when she brought the phone up to her ear and mouthed, _Go._

Crud nuggets.

Begrudgingly, the girl lifted one foot after the other and traipsed over to the boy. Without a word, she hopped onto the bench and sat beside him, self-conscious of what her appearance might be. She'd brushed her teeth, combed her hair, even stolen some of her mother's perfume to smell good that day. But what if she looked bad? What if she had something stuck on her tooth? She ate pancakes that morning—what if Eren didn't like pancakes and he smelled them in her breath?

She bit her lip, staring down at her small feet. They couldn't reach the ground, so they dangled in the air below her. Mama was whispering a few feet away, arguing with Papa in a hushed tone. Mikasa sighed, for she could always tell when they were arguing, because her mother's shoulders would take on a hunch they didn't naturally possess, and her voice would become more intimidating than what it already was. Which, let me tell you, was darnright _scary_.

Mikasa loathed it when her parents argued. What did they even have to fight about now?

"You okay?" Eren asked her, his voice making her jump.

"Y-yes."

"Are you sick?" His voice was a whisper, his eyes the color of leaves.

"I'm not sick," she breathed, realizing that this was the first time she ever spoke to him directly since the day they met. Her heart was restless, pumping blood so fast it made her dizzy. She cleared her throat, afraid that the boy beside her might hear the shrill screams her heartbeats emitted, carrying with them the echoes of her nervous soul. _Don't embarrass yourself, _it said. _Be cool, Mikasa. Be cool._

_Be cool! Be cool! BE COOL!_

Eren raised his brows at her. She held her breath.

"You look sad," he said. His hair was a mess. Now that he was so close to her, she could she aspects of him she'd never seen before. His eyes were brighter, his smile bigger, his dimple flashier and bolder than she ever imagined. "Usually, people are sad when they're sick."

"No. I'm not sick."

"Huh," and then he popped more Lucky Charms into his mouth.

Mikasa watched him pluck out all the wheat bits from the cereal, so that all that was left was the colorful little marshmallows. She gaped in horror as he brought a handful into his mouth. That was pure sugar he was eating! Pure sugar!

"Why do you throw those out?" she queried, wrinkling her nose.

"What, the wheat bits?"

"Mhm."

"I don't like them. I only like the marshmallows."

"The wheat bits are my favorite," she confessed.

Blasphemy.

"What!?"

"Yep."

Mama was still arguing with Papa. Her hisses were carried off by the early morning breeze, so that they never reached the bench. It really was as if that tree secluded them for the rest of existence. In their own separate little world, Mikasa was content.

"Do you want them?" Eren offered her his hand. Lucky Charms covered his palm, all the wheat bits he was about to throw out smiling at her.

"Sure." She cradled her hands together and held them out. Eren dropped the cereal onto her palms, scoffing in disbelief when she popped it into her mouth and chewed discreetly.

"What kind of person likes the wheat bits?" he asked himself.

Mikasa smiled. "Me."

And he smiled too.

Even the sky bore witness to their meeting that day, the start of something new. It was how soulmates were made. With thread and hope and little clumps of cereal, two spirits coexisted and merged into one. A funny thing that, destiny.

**—o—**

Winter came, slowly.

Golden, fiery leaves rained down like autumn snow. The wind carried them in hordes, sweeping the soiled ground they laid on. Temperatures dropped, branches shed their clothing, sunsets burned with the last few rays of light. The planet took a deep, long breath. As it inhaled, nature stripped its warmth, bracing itself for the icy exhale that bathed the world in white. It was a cruel, harsh sigh, but it was borne with hope, patience. Once a year, nature agreed to die so that with the coming Spring it could resuscitate. And as it was with the world, it was so with Eren Jaeger.

His bright, summer eyes dimmed. His sunny, resplendent smile waned. The colorful bursts of his soul became as crisp and pale as the snow that piled up around them. Something in him changed. He was like the seasons, as vehement as the shifts of life itself.

The grandpa bench, you see, became their bench.

Every morning, Mikasa would trot over to the bus stop with her mother, then plop onto the spot Eren always reserved for her at his side (not that there was anyone that could possibly claim it, but he still saved it just for her). It was then that Mikasa would occupy herself with trying to decipher what season Eren was that day.

Sometimes, he was Spring.

Sometimes, he was Summer.

Sometimes, he was Fall.

Sometimes, he was cold, cold Winter.

And when he was distant, frigid, Mikasa had great difficulty understanding why.

Soon, she discovered that it was partly because of his parents. "Mom sleeps a lot," he'd told her one morning. "And Dad's almost never home. He's a doctor. Doctors are never home." When his mother slept the most, when his father was the most absent, when his dimple didn't flash as much and his eyes barely rose to meet hers, Mikasa knew: it was snow that settled in his heart. Snow.

To see Eren upset is to witness something very daunting. Fire isn't supposed to freeze, flames aren't meant to cool and relinquish their heat. They're made to thaw, to offer warmth, to give off light. And that was Eren. But he did, at times, stop burning. And when he did, Mikasa cursed the defied laws of nature, for she hated it so much.

It was one day after school, when Papa was at work and Mama was still out running errands, that Eren flung a snowball at her face and bruised her cheek.

"Ow!" she screamed. Their school bus screeched and sputtered away. It was just them, and the bench, and the snow, and the white weeping willow tree that heard the young girl's cry.

"Oh!" Eren gasped upon realizing that he'd hurt her, gloved hands flying to his mouth. "I'm sorry!"

Mikasa rubbed her cheek, glaring at him.

Lesson Number Two:

One does not, and this means _never_, decline a snowball fight.

"Prepare to die."

"Uh oh."

"This means war."

"No!"

"Come here, you big meanie!"

"I'm! Not! Mean!" Eren grunted, hurling clumps of snow at Mikasa and deflecting the neat little balls she threw at him.

They screamed and ran around to throw snow at one another. Eren was good at dodging most of her attacks. _Most _of them. When Mikasa landed a solid one on his head, she squealed with manic laughter.

"Hey!" He shook his head violently, snow flying off his hair. "Not funny!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"_Yes!"_

"Oof!" he grunted, flinging another snowball. "Take that!"

"Oh yeah?" Mikasa gathered the biggest pile of snow she could manage. It dispersed in the air, barely reaching him. "Aw, poop!"

"Ha!"

"I quit!"

"Loser!"

Another flurry of white came flying her way. She went to run the other direction, when suddenly her foot slipped on ice and she toppled backwards and onto her back.

Eren's gasp was loud.

"Mikasa!"

She was crying.

"Mikasa, are you okay?!"

Her hands hid her face, sobs poured into her gloves.

Eren's heart catapulted up to his throat. He could throw it up he was so scared.

"Hold on, I'm coming!"

His feet tore through the snow. He threw himself beside her, tentative fingers grasping her hand.

"Mikasa," he panted, his cheeks red. "Mikasa, what hurts?"

No response. She was wailing now.

"Mikasa, talk to me! Please!"

"Mrohbrughbleghup."

"What?!"

"Mehuprmhmph."

"I can't— I don't understand!"

Suddenly, the world spun.

"Gotcha!"

Eren found himself on his back, blinking up at a grinning, perfectly fine Mikasa.

"I win!" she triumphed, slapping a handful of snow on his head. "Who's the loser now?"

Eren wiggled beneath her, groaning at the chill that caked his skull. She sat on his belly, which made him grunt. "Heavy," he grimaced. "Dying…. can't…. breathe… need… _air_…"

"I'm not that heavy," she frowned. He went to move his arms, but they were pinned down to the ground on either side of him. Her nails dug into his bare wrists, her breaths puffing out in small clouds that made her chest stutter. Her cheeks and nose were rosy, skin so pale it made the flush stand out like highlighter streaks on paper. There was so much white around them. Even her eyes abandoned a sliver of their dark, dark tone. They were silver, not black. Shiny, perfect silver.

Then it hit him.

Holy sh*t. Mikasa Ackerman was touching him. On top of him. A girl!

Abort! Abort!

_Abort mission!_

"Get off," Eren huffed weakly. He felt his cheeks tingle with heat, which puzzled him. Girls were gross, they had cooties. But somehow, Eren didn't mind Mikasa's cooties at all.

"Mikasa," he wheezed. She blinked at him. There were snowflakes in her hair.

"What?"

"Your eyelashes. You got snow on your eyelashes."

"So do you."

"Get off."

"No."

"What, are you gonna kiss me?"

"Ew, no!"

"Then get off me!"

"But—"

"I'll kiss you if you don't get off me!"

"Fine!"

She rolled onto the ground beside him. but only after punching him on the arm.

"Ow." It hurt like heck, but Mom always told him that boys are supposed to protect girls, not hit them. So Eren let himself stay hit that time. He made it an exception, though. Only Mikasa could punch him without getting a punch back.

He heard her giggle into the air, her laughter beating on his eardrums. They both had snow pressed to their skins and clothing, their school bags flung to some abandoned corner by the bus stop. Because they lived in the buttcrack of nowhere, cars never passed by. There was no sound save for the cool hush of the wind, and the warm torrents of their breathing.

Mikasa turned her head to peer at him, splitting her lips to say something, air slipping in between them to swell her throat. But that same breath lodged itself there. His eyes were closed. He was frowning, like a child who sees nightmares at the backs of his eyelids.

She blinked, studying him. His lips were chapped. She thought of what he'd threatened her with earlier, how hasty she'd been to refuse. Surely, he didn't really mean it. Eren wasn't the type to just grab a girl and kiss them. He could hardly walk in a straight line, let alone kiss someone!

In the privacy of her own mind, she wondered what his lips might feel like. If they kissed like grown ups, would it be soft? Would it feel sticky? Would she get slobber on her chin? Would fireworks pop between them the way they do in movies? Would he taste sweet? Bad? Like porridge? Like chocolate ice cream with whipped cream on top?

But wait! Don't babies come from kisses too!?

Mikasa shook her head. She was far too young to be anyone's mother but Nyngio's.

"Get up, silly," she told him, rising to her feet. He cracked an eye open to look at her. She scoffed. "Our moms are going to kill us."

"Why?" he queried, still on the ground.

"Because! We're covered from head to toe in snow."

"So?"

"What do you think snow does in heat, Eren?"

"Uh…" he scrunched his eyes, thinking. "Melt?"

"Exactly. And what happens when it melts?"

"It becomes water."

"And what does water do to clothes?"

"Burn it!"

"_Eren."_

"Ugh, Mikasa, it's no big deal. My mom won't care." Groaning, he brought himself to his feet and eyed her bruise. "Sorry about your cheek," he murmured, ashamed of himself.

"It's okay," Mikasa shrugged. She went to turn around, to get her schoolbag and his, but his fingers curled around her hand in a flash, stopping her.

"I'll make it up to you," he said.

And then green eyes closed.

And snow-dusted lips puckered.

And they drew closer inch, by inch, by inch.

And Mikasa could taste the chocolate, the sweetness, the childish excitement on his lips as if they already connected to hers when suddenly—

"Wanna eat some spaghetti?!"

Mikasa's features fell. "Some what?"

"Spaghetti!" Eren grinned, sniffling. "Ma makes the best spaghetti in the history of ever. Your mom's not home yet, right?"

"Uh." Her eyes fell to their hands. Still joined. "Right."

"Then come over! You can meet my mom."

"Your mama?"

"My _mom_, yes. Wanna meet her?"

A ruddy lip clenched between her teeth. "I can't, Eren. I have ballet in an hour. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Can't," he sighed, letting go of her hand. "I've got soccer practice. How about Wednesday?"

"Ballet. Thursday?"

"Doctor's appointment. Friday?"

"Dance recital."

"Shit."

"Turd nuggets."

They treked to their schoolbags in a solemn, solemn march: chins down, gazes low, shoulders slumped, bodies laden in sadness.

"This sucks," Eren whined.

Mikasa hummed in agreement.

When they both had their bags on their backs, when they both swept off the snow that clung to their coats and legs, when the time to go their separate ways came and neither of them wanted to, Eren said, "We'll figure it out. Mom's not going anywhere anytime soon."

And Mikasa felt her heart crack.

"I… I should go," she told him, thinking of her own mother. Who was healthy. Who was alive. Whom Armin never had to refer to as someone who is _sick Mikasa. She's dying._ "Mama will be home any minute, you know."

"Okay," the boy said, lingering. There was a level of reluctance in him, a procrastinating aura that neglected going home.

"Goodbye, Eren."

"Bye."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"See ya!"

They split, Eren going east, Mikasa going west, her eyes up north with her hair flowing south and her heart, somehow, stuck right in the middle, like the needle of a compass that spun, and spun, and spun, and never landed.

**—o—**

Kisses don't taste like chocolate. Mikasa knew for a fact, because when she pecked her own mother on the lips, or her father, their chaste goodnights would taste like either absolutely nothing, or Mama's chapstick. That's it. No chocolate, no sweetness. Just good ol' nothingness and Carmex.

How does kissing even work? You pucker up and boom, bam, done. That's how her dolls kissed. She'd bring their plastic, empty heads together, tilt them slighting to the side, and three mississippi's later it was over. She'd giggle, the rebel. Kissing was for adults, and her dolls weren't adults; Ningyo was only a year older than her, but at times like that, she'd let herself dream. What if? _What if?_ What if kisses _did_ taste like sugar and cocoa? What if they _did _last three whole mississippi's of pure gold? What if a simple smooch was enough to make her weak at the knees, make her heart grow wings and flutter?

One night after showering, a determined Mikasa decided to "practice". She wiped the fog off her mirror so that she could see herself. With her hair plastered to her cheeks and neck, she eyed the drops of water that rolled down her pasty skin, puckered her pinkened lips and leaned forward.

Forward.

Forward.

Until she felt the cold, smooth surface on her lips.

_One mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi._

Done. She leaned back and observed the print her kiss left on the glass, the two foggy blotches her nostrils breathed against it. She wrinkled her nose, and made a mental note to never breathe next time she kissed someone. She could go three seconds without breathing. Yeah.

But wait.

What about those weird, long kisses? The gross ones that she sometimes saw on her parents' TV that made her face twist in all kinds of horrific expressions? How do those people go so long without breathing and not pass out?!

Never mind, scratch that. Mikasa would _never_ kiss anyone again. Not Mama. Maybe not Papa. Most certainly not anybody else. It was final.

But she couldn't stop staring at Eren's mouth; how it moved, the easy way it slipped into smiles, frowns, seldom ever silence. On the days he _was_ silent though, his mouth would not move at all, except to form straight, taut lines that looked as if somebody had zipped his lips together and secured them with a lock.

Would a kiss be the key that would free them?

Mikasa mentally slapped herself on the face for that thought.

Lesson Number Three:

One does not, and this means _never_, think about kissing thy friend.

It was one of those days, when his lips were sealed, that he suddenly unzipped and moved them to ask, "Do you have ballet today, Mikasa?"

She blinked at him, swaying slightly when their bus ran over a bump. "No, why?"

"Can you come over?"

"Why?"

"I don't want to be alone today."

"Isn't your mama home?"

"I'm always alone," he breathed, staring down at his hands. Mikasa had to remind herself that loneliness wasn't a good thing to most people, the way it was for her.

"Not always," she whispered kindly. "You have me. We're neighbors!"

"Then be a neighbor today and come over!" The words exploded out of his mouth, surprising her. "Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

"I would have to ask for permission first."

"From who? Your mom?"

"She's strict."

This didn't faze him in the slightest.

"Ask her! Here." His cell phone went flying her way. "Call!"

And so she did. She punched in the numbers. Waited. Waited.

"_Hello?"_

"Mama."

Quickly, Eren pressed his ear to the back of the phone to listen. His close proximity made Mikasa stiffen, made words tangle in her mouth.

"_Mikasa?" _Mama took her silence as reason to be alarmed. "_What's wrong? Is everything okay?"_

"I'm fine. Um, I have a question."

"_What is it, honey?"_

"Can I come over Eren's house today?"

A pause.

"_To do what?"_

_Homework_, he mouthed.

"Homework," Mikasa repeated.

"_He's a boy, Mikasa," _sighed Mama. Mikasa felt heat rise to her cheeks.

"He's my friend. Armin's a boy too."

"_Yes, but I know Armin."_

"You know Eren."

"_Mikasa."_

"Sorry."

Mama's sigh was labored.

Eren's shoulder met Mikasa's, his hair tickling the side of her face, the bitter taste of rejection garnishing the already sour silence that was shared between them.

"_Alright, fine." _Mama capitulated suddenly. "_You can go."_

Both kids gasped.

"_You have two hours. I will pick you up, okay?"_

"Yes! Thank you, Mama!"

"_Alright."_

Mikasa squealed, "She said yes!"

Eren did too. "Yay!"

Had Armin been there, he would've been ecstatic. He also would've noticed her copious lip-gawking. And she would've begged him not to tell, would've asked him _pretty please with a cherry on top?_

**—o—**

Eren's house was—in every way—the total and complete opposite of Mikasa's.

Hers had a garden and his had trees. Hers was bright with colors and his was dull with age. Hers was two stories high and his was only one plus an attic. Hers was upkept like a doll house and his resembled the unkempt antiquity of a cabin. But no house was better than the other. They were both equally a home, both equally a sanctuary, except opposites in appearance and age. Mikasa could never imagine growing up in his home; Eren would probably feel the same way about hers.

And so they entered through the garage: a large wall that slithered upwards like an electronic snake, whose loud humming only ceased once it adhered to the ceiling. Inside, there was a truck, looking old and rusty and quite abandoned. "It's my mother's," Eren explained as the garage door grumbled shut. It was then that it occurred to Mikasa that the last time his mother may have driven could've been—by the looks of that truck—years and years ago.

They snuck their way inside, small feet shuffling quietly on the carpet. In Mikasa's home, one had to always take off their shoes before entering, guest and household member alike. Eren's home ran by different laws, though; the stained floors confessed it. With shoes full of snow, he pottered right in, leaving a trail of melting white behind him.

His house was even bigger on the inside. It was warm. Not just in ambience and temperature, but the colors of the furniture, lights, walls, all possessed their own unique measure of heat. Somehow, the sunlight hardly crept in through the curtained windows, so Eren had to flick on a light. Every light he revived on his way to his bedroom was dim. It was as if the entire place were afraid of being too loud. Everything was quiet. The lights. The air. The warmth. Even Eren.

"This is my room," he whispered, opening a door. "You can leave your stuff here."

"Okay." It seemed that even voices were dim in here.

"Sorry about the mess." And boy, was there a mess indeed. His room was even messier than his hair!

"That's alright," Mikasa muttered, stepping over a sea of scattered legos. What looked like a half-finished spaceship of some sort laid abandoned nearby. Drawings of cars, buildings, and even more spaceships hung on his walls, drawn by him, it seems. A guitar rested on his unmade bed. Worn clothes and toys littered every other space that could've potentially looked clean, but weren't allowed to. A dirty soccer uniform was kicked out of view by an embarrassed Eren, who sniffled and cleared his throat.

"My father's not home," he explained, as if his absence wasn't obvious enough.

"Mine hardly ever is either," Mikasa said, much too familiar with the cons of having a workaholic parent.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not you fault."

And with that, their backpacks and coats were chucked to some random corner, just like the rest of Eren's things.

"Come on," the boy said then, his eyes shining. "I want you to meet my mom."

Mikasa nodded, gulping down the pounding that shot up to her throat. Her heart landed with a thud, leaving an unpleasant taste where it'd hammered away at the back of her tongue.

Their footsteps were bated breaths that fused with the omnipresent silence. Down a long hallway, to the right, was a lonely, forlorn door. They stopped there, and Eren's hand paused just centimeters away from the doorknob, as if he were afraid it might sear his skin. That was when he turned to look at Mikasa and asked, "Please don't be scared."

"I'm not scared," she lied.

Eren's lips moved to say more, but they hid in his mouth. With an inhale that puffed out his chest, he clasped the doorknob, turned it, pushed.

Slowly, the door creaked open.

Just a sliver.

A thin line.

Enough for Eren's voice to slip inside.

"Mom?" No answer. "Mommy?" The sliver grew, and grew, and grew. And soon, Mikasa's features were freezing, one by one, at the sight before them.

Machines. The likes of which she'd only seen in movies, or imagined in her mind, all beeped and connected to the frail, thin woman who hardly filled the bed she laid on. All the lunches that were made for her, the flower crown that got destroyed, her first suspension, the boy that stood beside her and motioned for her to come in, were all linked to this fragile human being, this thin thread of life. Mikasa could hardly believe it. Eren's mother felt so grand, but looked so small, so finite.

"Mommy," he whispered, his lips on his mother's ear. "Mom, wake up."

A long inhale filled the woman's lungs. Mikasa held her breath, afraid that her own air might be polluted and sicken her further.

"Mom." Eren smiled, with a gentleness Mikasa had never seen him use before. "Mom, guess what."

"What?" It was a cracked, quiet noise. The remnant of a voice that once boomed loudly.

"I've got a surprise for you."

Eyebrows the color of Eren's hair furrowed. "Uh oh."

"No, no, it's good. Trust me. Mikasa's here."

"Mikasa?"

"Look."

That was when she opened her eyes.

Gold. Like the flecks of light that dusted Eren's irises.

"Mikasa," she smiled as her son pushed her hair behind her ear. "It's so good to finally meet you."

"Yes," the girl said, her heart back up in her throat. "It's nice to meet you too."

"I'm Carla."

"Hello, Carla."

"Eren's told me lots about you."

"_Mom,"_ the boy hissed, eyeing her sternly.

"Well, I'm not lying."

"Shhh."

Her drowsy croaks transformed into breaths: "She's pretty."

"Stop, Ma!"

"No wonder Armin says you got a thingy thing for—"

"No!" He covered her eyes with his hand. "Okay, time to go back to sleep. Goodnight, Mother."

"Hold up," Carla giggled, a healthy, happy sound. "I'm only joking."

Her son grumbled something under his breath. She removed his hand from her face, brought herself up to a sitting position, wincing.

"Candy?" Eren asked her.

Her smile was faint. "Please."

He scurried to a nearby drawer, pulling out a lollipop that looked nothing like regular candy at all.

"I would offer you one," Carla told Mikasa. "But they're pretty nasty."

"That's alright," she said, her eyes glued on the sheet that fell from her shoulders.

Carla's bones were like blades. They pressed out under her skin, sharp points just a jab away from bursting through the surface. It seemed that all of her insides were made of knives; wincing features told her so. Veiny hands shook as she unwrapped the lollipop and popped it into her mouth, the hardened shell clinking against her teeth. And she was thin. Thinner than Mama. Her hair, a brunette mess, was pulled in a ponytail that hung loosely to one side as a consequence of her napping.

_Please don't be scared,_ Eren had told her.

But Mikasa quickly realized that there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.

Sometimes, God put big souls inside bodies that were far too small to carry them. And that was Eren's mom. She had dimples when she smiled, and eyes that shone very bright and were so pure no sickness could touch them. She was ill, and frail, and grimaced as she sucked on her morphine lollipop, but it was so clear to see where Eren got his zest for life and altruism from. Perhaps his father was the quiet one of the family, because Carla was as loud, as funny, and as outspoken as her son. Her eyes crinkled when she laughed, just like Eren's do. She was hot-headed and smart and sassy, and when she stood up to get herself a glass of water, the way she swatted her objecting son away showed how stubborn she was too. As she walked, her nightgown barely hanging onto her skin, Mikasa saw that she had a small tattoo on her upper back, a sun with flames rooting out of it, and a tattoo of a rose on her ankle. Suddenly, the truck, the drawings, the guitar, they all made sense. She was a big, big soul, crammed into the constricted spaces of a fragile body. And her son, who was just as fervent, seemed to carry the parts of her spirit that her sickness wouldn't allow within himself.

"I haven't always looked like this," she told Mikasa after a while of conversing, as the glass of water shook its way up to her lips.

"Neither have I," the child said. "I just grew one more inch this past month. And my hair's gotten longer. Mama wants to cut it, but I keep telling her not to."

Carla's eyes were tender. "Do you like having long hair?"

"Mhm."

"Me too. And this one," she ruffled Eren's hair, messing it further. "Is a pain when it comes to getting haircuts."

"I hate them," he concurred. "I have to sit still so long and my butt gets numb."

"And your ears get itchy."

"Because of the little hairs that stick to my skin! Gross!"

"But that didn't stop him from cutting off his own hair when he was four."

"I was hot!"

"I still can't believe your father let you play with those scissors."

"I cut my own hair once too," confessed Mikasa. "My mother cried."

To her surprise, Carla laughed. "You're very smart, Mikasa. Do you like to read?"

"At times," the girl murmured, blushing at her compliment. "But not as much as Armin."

"Nobody likes to read as much as that mushroom head," Eren scoffed. His mother flicked his earlobe.

"You've got some nerve calling him mushroom head—"

"—It's out of love!—"

"—when your own hair is an atrocity, mister."

He went to stick his tongue out at her, but Carla had already predicted that he would. She took his nose between her fingers and pinched hard.

"Ow!" Eren's cry was nasally. "Mommy, stop!"

She didn't. She just kissed him hard on the side of the head.

"Mommy!"

Mikasa found herself biting back a laugh.

"What do you say we make some spaghetti tonight?" was Carla's sudden proposal, letting go of Eren's nose. "I'm feeling up to it today."

"Whoo!" her son shouted, throwing himself back on her bed. The mattress swayed and complained under his bouncing body, causing her to spill some water on herself.

She sighed, but then her gaze was on Mikasa and her voice was welcoming. Content.

"Mikasa, would you like to eat with us?"

Lesson Number Four:

One does not, and this means _never_, willingly refuse thy friend's Mama. Or spaghetti.

And thus:

"Yes!"

**—o—**

Friendship blooms much in the way that flowers do. Through the piles of snow, the chilly air, the scarce sunlight, Eren and Mikasa formed a bond that flourished so effortlessly, nothing could wither it—not even ice.

They understood one another. Seldom did Mikasa need to speak for Eren to understand what she was saying, and never did Eren need to explain himself, or even apologize, when it came to her. They were so different, and yet entirely alike. The sun and the moon, eclipsed each time they met. Nature had a funny way of defying its own laws, of stringing the impossible together.

Armin was happy, healthy.

Mikasa sat with them at lunch now, even though she sometimes missed the sweet librarian that had smiled at her every day that she got bullied. But as the world changed, so did Mikasa's life. She had friends now. Two. Two whole live, breathing friends. It was awesome.

She met Eren's father on a day when the clouds were crying. Rain pattered on the roof and Grisha Jaeger, as he introduced himself, came home early from work. Carla felt well enough to cook. Grisha was kind ruffled Eren's hair, shook Mikasa's hand, kissed his wife on the forehead. It was a good day. Mikasa skipped home that afternoon, splashing her rain boots on shallow puddles, singing about the little joys of life.

The life of a child is filled with tremendous, little pleasures. When Mikasa thought about eating chocolate or dinner at the Jaegers', or spending lunchtime with her chatty friends, her heart would flitter with the excitement of something good to come. The whole world was bright and happy because chocolate, Armin, Eren and his family existed. A very young and frivolous Mikasa was direly content.

But youth is filled with small, overwhelming tragedies also.

Everything bad feels like the absolute end of the world. So one day, when Eren had tomato sauce on his cheek, and Mikasa snorted into her napkin, and a loud crash suddenly made them jump, a horrified Carla gaped at the shattered dishes in the kitchen sink, the hands that had cramped and locked and failed her. Tears formed in her eyes. Mikasa saw them, and the spaghetti in her stomach turned to acid, the happy whistling of her heart ceased as if the sky itself were falling, as if the ground had suddenly given out.

"Mom?"

"I'm sorry. I think I need to go lay down."

And with that, she vanished.

Death was such an incredible concept to understand. Mikasa was smart enough to know that it was inevitable, a natural part of life, that eventually all things must return to the place they come from. All life is burrowed. Our bodies are burrowed. Our souls and hopes and dreams, all borrowed. And one day they must return to God. But it was the cruel unfairness that comes with souls returning home that she simply could not fathom.

Why did Kami allow good people to be sick?

Armin?

Carla?

_Why?_

"Mikasa," Carla said one afternoon as they did Eren's laundry. "This is your home, you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered, folding a jacket into a neat little square. "I understand."

"So if you ever need anything, you are more than welcome to come here. My home is your home."

"_Mi casa es su casa,_ Mikasa. Ha-ha! That's funny!"

"Very clever, son."

"Thanks, I know."

A sudden wave of anxiety washed over the small girl. The clock was ticking. In retrospect, all beings are dying; even Mama, even Papa, even Eren—the epitome of life itself. But his mom was _dying_ dying. She was dwindling, bit by bit, disappearing right before their eyes. Mikasa feared that one day, she would wake up and Carla would simply be gone. Her tattoos, her smiles, her spaghetti dinners and afternoons spent folding clothes, all gone.

_Kami,_ she breathed in her being. _I'm not ready. I'm not ready to say goodbye. _She was too young. Eren was too young. The world was too young to lose Carla Jaeger.

If only she could will people into health. If only Mikasa could love Carla so, so much that she cured her. But one cannot love another's illnesses away. You can only love them. Ill. Living. Dying. Just love them.

"Can I bring my parents over this weekend?" she asked. "I would like for them to meet you."

Her friend, the woman who brought Eren into the world, the one with sunlight in her eyes, she said: "Of course, sweetie."

And Mikasa took more time from God. She snatched the clock from Kami's great, big hands and demanded more minutes, more seconds, more breaths. _You're not taking her yet,_ she seethed. Not yet. Not yet.

**—o—**

"I have the butt of a damn rhinorocerorous!"

"I think you mean rhinoceros, honey."

"To slag with this dress! And to slag with you!"

"I think you mean to—"

"I know what I mean, you slimy…" the rest was in angry Japanese.

Papa turned to Mikasa, shooting her a wink.

In her pink dress, she smiled.

"That's it!" Mama declared, throwing her hands up and storming off to her closet. "I'm not going!"

Papa smirked, looping his tie into yet another failed attempt at a proper knot. "Honey, I'm sure we can find you something that won't make your ass look like a three ton mammal's rear."

"I hate you!"

"What about that gray sweater dress?"

"It's dirty!"

"And the red knitted one?"

"It's—" A gasp. "Oh, let me check that one."

From her spot on their bed, Mikasa giggled. "Mama's having a crisis."

Her father had to agree.

"It's clean!"

"That's great, honey!" Then he mouthed to the girl, _Give her a sec._

_Okay, _she mouthed back. Ningyo sat on her lap, tattered hair brushed back all nice and neat, but Mikasa wouldn't take her with them that day. She was nearly ten, almost a big girl, and big girls didn't take dolls with them wherever they went.

Mama appeared out of the closet, cheeks flushed from the exercise of stuffing her butt into yet another small dress. "How does it look?" she asked her family, spinning on her toes.

Two mouths hung wide open.

"Holy fart," Mikasa gaped.

"Holy shit," Papa laughed.

"What?" asked Mama, perching her hands on her hips. "What is it?"

"You look amazing." And she did. "A perfect ten."

Her face shifted with skepticism, black hair thrown messily around her head. Even in her flustered state, Mama was immensely beautiful. The dress she wore clung to her frame and accentuated her curves, which may not have been conservative enough for her standards, but by the whistle Papa gave when she turned to pore over her own reflection in the mirror, rising onto tippy toes and jutting out her hip to see her butt, it was obvious that _he_ was a big fan, at least.

"Are you sure it's not, say, an eight?" she asked her husband.

He smiled, an endearing twinkle in his eyes. "Would I ever lie to you?"

With a scoff, Mama surrendered, the way she always did, to his flashy grin.

"I'm sorry I called you a slimy ass eating iguana," she pouted, adjusting his tie. Mikasa realized how small her mother looked beside her father. She was tiny, a whole head shorter than him.

"You see," Papa cringed, choking on his wife's rough tying, "some things are better left untranslated."

Mama snickered, her small nose wrinkling.

And then Papa kissed her lips.

Mikasa covered Ningyo's eyes, grimacing. "Blegh." Old people.

Papa grimaced too. "Gross," he groaned, licking his lips. "Carmex."

Kisses don't taste like chocolate.

"See, Ningyo? I told ya."

**—o—**

The day Mikasa Ackerman discovered what Eren's lips taste like was the best and worst day of her life.

The sun was out and the world was cold but the sun didn't care, it kept shining. Mama was in her red knitted dress, Papa wore a tie, and Mikasa's pink dress and white leggings and gray boots were not as bright as the red scarf Carla had wrapped around her neck when she answered the door and grinned, "Hello!"

Mama blinked, taken aback by her enthusiasm.

"Hi," said Papa. "We brought cake."

"Perfect!" chirped Eren, popping out from behind his mother's waist.

"Chocolate?" whispered Armin. Upon seeing him standing by Eren, Mikasa gasped.

"Armin!"

"Mikasa!"

They embraced. It was tight and full of squeals, their hug.

"Come in, come in!" urged Carla. So they did.

Her home smelled of food, delicious home-cooked meals Mikasa couldn't wait to delve into. She'd eaten nothing but a muffin that day, which the girls at her dance studio would frown upon because _ballerinas don't eat carbs_, but to poop with them. She was a carb-lover and proud—a good thing too, because Carla only cooked pasta.

Mikasa had never seen her more healthy, more full of life, than she was that day. Her hair was long, and hung loosely around her shoulders in mild, chocolate waves. She wore the slightest tinge of makeup, which she didn't need, for Carla had a face angels could envy, eyes the stars dreamt about in their sleep. She was the sun indeed, a thornless rose, the paintings she etched on her skin, her soul. Her tattoos weren't visible to Mama, whom she conversed with a great deal of the afternoon. The kids spent hours playing together, and when it was time to eat, voices were loud, plates were passed. They all ate as family.

That day was the best day of Mikasa's life because after their bellies were full of food and chocolate cake, and Mama was helping Carla with dishes, and Grisha and Papa were laughing loudly about something only adults could understand, Armin took a potty break and Mikasa laid beside Eren on his bedroom floor, drowsy hands rubbing their bloated bellies.

"I am going to explode," he moaned.

Mikasa groaned, far too full to muster sentences.

"Mikasa," he said after a beat. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you love me?"

She craned her neck to peer at him, dark eyes wide. "What?"

"Ah, forget it."

"Wait, no, why do you ask?"

"I'm just curious."

She frowned. But then her neck began to hurt, so she laid her head back down. "I do," she told him, tracing the glow-in-the-dark stickers of planets that littered his ceiling. Her words resonated in the air, drifted from her mouth to his ears, to Mars and Jupiter and Saturn. "I love you the way that stars love the moon."

"Wow, that's deep."

"Thank you. I read it in a book once."

"I love you too," Eren whispered, closing his eyes. "I love you so much that it hurts. Right here," he tapped a finger to his sternum. "Feels like it might pop one day, and all that will be left of my heart is a big black hole. I don't get it, Mikasa. Why does everything hurt? I love things so much that I hate them. I don't know how to stop."

"How to stop what?"

"Feeling."

"Feeling isn't a bad thing, Eren. It's a gift to have a big heart."

"Is it?"

"I think so. It's how God made you."

"I don't know if I believe in God."

Mikasa gawked at the ceiling, balling her small hands atop her chest, right above her heart. "How can you not?"

"How could I? Look at my mom. How can God be real when people like her are sick, when there's kids our age dying and wars going on?"

His words brought along her silence. At a loss for words, she eyed the shaft of afternoon light that shone in from his window and painted his walls with a buttery glow. God is just like that, Mikasa thought, like a perpetual shaft of sunlight. You must open your heart to faith, and just as light pours in through windows, God will pour into your soul.

"God is real," she muttered, seeking Eren's hand. Her fingers brushed the side of his palm. His skin was warm. "God is everywhere, Eren. In the trees, in the grass, inside of us. In the sky, our lungs, in everything we love. You don't need to believe in something for it to be real. Mama tells me so."

This made him think. His hand twitched at her touch, the subtle flutter of life at her fingertips. Their breathing was all either of them heard for a while. And then Eren turned to her and said, "Can I kiss you?"

"Say wut."

"A kiss!" He sat on his heels, his eyes alight. "Let's try it."

"Really?" Mikasa rose from the floor, kneeling in front of him. "Why do you want to kiss?"

"I wonder what it feels like."

"Hasn't Auntie ever kissed you on the lips?"

"Nope."

"Your papa?"

"Nope."

"Dang."

Eren ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "I would ask Armin, but I don't think he would like that very much."

Her eyes darted to his guitar, strewn lazily across his bed. Why couldn't he ask her this the way they do in movies? Maybe sing her a song, strum away at the strings that reek of rust and age in an effort to tug at the ones of her heart, lure her lips closer to his and seal the deal, discover what both of them have long been wondering? They're too young to have their first kiss—but by what laws? In fairytales, the prince never asks, he just does it. He just grabbed her and kissed and did it and revived the princess from her slumber and rescued her from her cell and her fate and herself and—

He kissed her.

He grabbed her shoulders. Pulled her close. Kissed her.

It was a loud, wet smeck. Nothing like what they show in the movies, or describe in storybooks. Lies, she'd been fed all her life. This quick, sloppy, lousy kiss was her new truth. Everything had changed. All it took was one whole mississippi, and everything changed.

"I'm sorry," Eren whispered, his breath on her lips, glowing.

"How could you?" Mikasa gasped. "You just—"

"I'm sorry."

"You just stole my first kiss."

"I'm sorry!"

"It's gone forever. You took it. It's gone."

"Agh!" Eren's head fell to his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I mess everything up, oh god, I'm sorry! Please don't hate me, please!"

Whether the prickling sensations on her skin came from rage, or elation, she did not know. Her thoughts, her feelings, were all a garbled wreck.

_I love you like the stars love the moon_.

And she did. She did. And Eren loved her too—not in the way that adults love each other, but in the way that nature loves the sun, the way even snow willingly melts under its heat in calm surrender. Some things are simply what they are. A kiss is just a kiss. Love is just love. Friendship is just friendship. All individual, all the same. His lips on hers, no sparks, no magic, just skin pressed to skin and chocolate cake in their breaths.

Mikasa smiled.

Eren still had his face in his hands. He was so ashamed. She smiled.

"You taste like chocolate," she said. Green, teary eyes peered up at her.

"Huh?"

"Chocolate," Mikasa simpered, covering her mouth. "I can't believe it. You actually taste like chocolate!"

"I do?"

"Yes!"

Eren bit his lip, and she almost wanted him to kiss her again, just to make sure she wasn't imagining it.

Chocolate.

His kissies tasted like friggin' chocolate!

"That was weird," Eren decided after a moment, to which Mikasa vehemently agreed.

"It was."

"Let's never do that again."

"Let's not."

"Yeah."

Then they laughed. Both of them. Giggling. Non-stop. How funny it was that something so fantasized about was such a bore in reality, as simple as blowing your nose, or pinching your arm, or eating ice cream. They wiped their mouths with the backs of their hands, and were about to venture out of his room to find Armin when somebody knocked on the door.

"Eren." It was his dad. "Can I speak with you?"

"Sure," he murmured, sparing Mikasa a quick glance. "Be right back."

"Okay."

He stood up. He left. The door closed, and she fell back on the floor, sighing, her tummy doing flippity-flops. Her hands found her cheeks, hot and vibrant and the color of her dress. "Best day ever," she breathed to herself.

And then Carla knocked.

"Mikasa?" The door creaked open slightly. "You in here?"

"Yes?"

"Can I have a word with you, baby?"

"Sure."

Slowly, Auntie made her way inside. Mikasa swallowed, rising to her feet, dusting the skirt of her dress. Maybe Carla knew that she'd just kissed her son. Maybe she was coming in to scold her, or praise her. She was prepared for everything, anything. The best, the worst.

But when Carla said, "I need to ask you for a favor. I'm going away soon," and Mikasa asked "where?" and she said "somewhere very far away, and I will not be back," she quickly learned that there are some things in life you cannot prepare for, only endure. Like broken bones. Like wounds and cuts. You hold your breath, you wait, you bear through it. And you heal, eventually. But when Carla asked Mikasa to take good care of Eren while she was gone, _eventually_ felt ages and ages away. And then she saw why the best day of her life was also the worst. The high of having her first kiss quickly left her. She couldn't taste the chocolatey after-taste of Eren's lips on hers, or the joy that had wrung her throat and squeezed out giggles. Suddenly, pain was all she knew. Sadness was all she knew. Happiness faded and the sky turned black.

"I promise, Auntie."

"Good."

When they embraced, Mikasa inhaled the woman's scent and memorized it. It was what home smelled like; like laundry detergent and morphine lollipops, and the subtle perfume that clung to the fabric of her red scarf. Red. Like blood, and roses, and the glorious bursts the sun paints across the sky as it sets. That was how Carla left her, like a flame that burned too bright, too beautifully, and thus burned out too quick.

**—o—**

The Most Important Lesson of All:

One cannot, and this means _never_, save anyone from themselves.

**—o—**

"Armin, where's Eren?"

"Huh?"

"He wasn't at the bust stop, at our bench. I'm worried."

"You didn't hear?"

"Didn't hear what?"

"Mikasa, listen."

"What? What is it?"

"Eren's gone."

"What do you mean?"

"He's going to be gone for a while."

"Why? What happened?"

"I don't know how to…"

"What? How to what? Please, tell me."

"I'm sorry.

"Tell me, Armin."

"This is why I needed you to be his friend. You've made him so happy, Mikasa. These past few months, he's been—"

"Armin! Tell me what's wrong."

"I've… Gosh, Mikasa."

"Please. Please. Where is he?"

"He's at the hospital."

"Why?"

"His mother died."

"She… what?"

"I'm sorry."

"So she's…?"

"She's dead."

She's dead.

She's dead.

She's dead.

She's


	13. Same Old Demons and Some New Friends

**A/N:** Surprise! Sometimes, I like to wonder exactly what it is about this fanfiction that provokes so much hate in certain people, but then I remember that I'm writing this for me, and I think of the people who get genuinely excited about this story, and I tell my brain to shut the fuck up. This chapter's been written for a while, and the next one is already done as well. I dunno when I'll put it up, but noting as how I'm starting to just not give any fucks anymore, it may be soon.

Thank you for reading, for being nice, for not abandoning the story. Thank you, and I made a playlist for Eren if you guys would like to hear (it's on my tumblr). Till next time! *kissy*

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _Same Old Demons and Some New Friends_ :.

.: Chapter XIII :.

* * *

Hitch's got a crush, which is definitely not a good thing. Nope. Not at all.

You see, she doesn't really know how or when the hell it happened, but she was caught up in the middle before she knew that it began. And the worse part is that the subject of her affection is a loud, chortling, spit-sputtering, walking sack of overbearing passion with a clandestine ass fetish and a thing for pizza with extra cheese. Now, try to guess who it is. Just try.

Yep. You got it.

Eren Jaeger isn't the type of guy you wanna be crushing on for a plethora of reasons. First of all, he's too damn attractive for his own good. That pretty face of his has girls falling for him left and right but the dumbass rarely ever notices. Seriously, you will never meet anyone more clueless than him. He can't take a hint. Don't ever try to flirt with him because he'll have no idea what you're doing. He'll peek at the breasts you've pushed up to your neck and raise his eyebrows, open his mouth to say something, but instead of commenting on your efforts he'll clear his throat and look away. Every. Single. Fucking. Time. It drives Hitch crazy.

Second, he's too kindhearted. The thing about him is that he can't help it. If he sees that you're in need, he'll sprint right into action and go to your aid. So when he's helping you carry heavy shit up the stairs, or letting you stay over at his place because the short trek to your own apartment it too cold, or he's throwing your favorite candy on your lap with "I saw this on my way home and thought of you," it's all simply because he is a good person, not because he holds any type of emotion towards you. It's how he is. Kind. Gentle. Good. Thoughtful. That too drives her absolutely bonkers, because it's all the things you _want_ him to be. You _want_ him to be perfect, and he is, gosh dang it. He is.

Third, he'll worry you half to fucking death and not even know it. He'll come back from a night out with a black eye and a bloody lip and say it's nothing. He won't eat right for days and shut you out of his life until he's feeling like talking again. One day, he's fine. The next, he won't answer texts or phone calls and he'll disappear into his room, binge-read a whole saga of books like a madman trying to find himself within the pages, and he'll come out questioning why you were worried when he was "fine, Hitch. Stop over-reacting." And he doesn't sleep. For days, he'll stay up until his eyes are droopy and red and he'll refuse to take any type of sleeping medicine because he's all against medication for some reason only God understands.

Fourth, he's a man full of secrets. He's honest, very honest. But sometimes, you'll catch glimpses of his scars and wonder why he has them. And he won't tell you. He'll brush you off. He'll make a joke and change the topic or pretend he didn't even hear you ask him about it at all. Eventually, you learn to ignore them. But they're always there, and you always wonder why. And he will never, ever tell you.

Finally, the worst part about crushing on Eren is that you are guaranteed that he will never like you back. Never. His heart's detached, despite how sensitive he is. There's parts of him that are utterly unreachable, and in all the years that Hitch has known him, never once has she seen him fall in love. He's dated, had flings, even set his heart out on loving people back the way they love him, but he always ends up bored, or disinterested, or staring at the text message you sent him like he doesn't understand. Why do you like him? Why do you care? Why do you give him the time of day? In his mind, he isn't worthy. So he pushes you away.

It's heartbreaking, really. He has no idea how wonderful he is. And he's smart. God, he's smart. You should see him when he's talking about something that he's really passionate about. You should see the way his eyes twinkle, how the book he's telling you about comes to life with the animated swings of his arms, and how the constellations he's so happily explaining take shape in his smile and make his teeth shine like glinting stars. You should see how caring he is with children, how he understands them; they bring out an innocence in him he's long since lost. You should see how he knows all these random little facts that no one else does, like why the color white glows under a blacklight and the mathematical equation for gravity and the last words of famous actors like James Dean, Marlon Brando, and Marilyn Monroe. How does he even know all that shit? Like the scar on his palm, it's a secret.

Hitch is fucked. Literally.

She's got a crush, and she doesn't know how to control it. And everyday, it only gets worse. Petty aspects of him like the fact that he's a belly sleeper and a blanket hog and that he's got freckles on his right shoulder that trickle down his back make her happy―and not in a good way either. Ugh.

Sometimes, he smiles and Hitch doesn't know whether she wants to punch him in the face or kiss him. Sometimes, he mocks her to piss her off and she doesn't know whether to glare at him or lick up the entire left side of his face which, okay, is kinda weird but this whole infatuation with him is weird to begin with. And of course, he's got no fucking clue of her growing feelings for him. He doesn't know that she likes to stare at him while he sleeps, that sometimes she finds his shirt on her floor and brings it to her nose to inhale the traces him, that she regrets the night they both got plastered and she took him to her room and fucked him because the next morning he'd felt horrible and guilty but no, Hitch had to go right on ahead and play her "It's no big deal, dumbass" card because yes, it _was_ a big deal to her. It was a _huge_ deal. She'd told him that they could do it casually from then on, that it didn't have to mean anything, that they'd been friends for long enough that it shouldn't change things between them―except that _hello, yes, I kind of really like you and everything has changed!_

She's a liar. A stinking, filthy liar and she knows it too.

She'll never admit that she wonders what being lovers would be like. Because his heart already beats so strong and his skin burns feverish and his breaths rush out of him with might but still, Hitch is a selfish girl, and she wonders whether making love instead of having sex would be any different. Their kisses are quick and brief and she wishes they were longer. They already fuck enough days in the week but she wants more. More of him. More of this. More of him wanting her.

But she'll never get it. Like, it's so obvious. Duh.

And lately, he's been spacing out more than usual. Ever since that Mikasa girl showed up, it's been happening. His lazy knocks on her door are still the same, soft and sure and languid. And their meetings are still the same. And she still counts his touches and his breaths before it's time to roll on the condom and then she counts the seconds until it's bliss, until it's pain settling in and the empty pang of unsatisfaction, and he's laying on the floor beside her with his pants pulled down his thighs trying to catch his breath and that's also the same except that now he's quiet with another woman's image in his mind. And that, you see, is different.

"Hey," Hitch raps, snapping her fingers in front of his face. Sweat sticks her bangs to her forehead, her bare back clammy against the floor. They smell like sex and disappointment, the two of them do. "Hey, Fabio."

He swats her hand away. "You really should stop calling me that."

"What's itching you?" She rolls onto her stomach and props herself up on her elbows, the side of her forearm touching his arm. "You've been staring at the ceiling for a while now."

"Nothing's itching me," he blinks, still staring up ahead. She sighs at his lie.

"Whatever," and she's about to get away from him when he reaches over and plucks a fleck of lint out of her hair, a sudden show of affection that freezes her. "What was that?"

"Fluff," he says, blowing it away from the tip of his finger. "I dunno."

She stares at him. And he doesn't see, no, of course not. His eyes are closed, and he has one hand on his belly and the other prowling up the back of her thigh, his fingers brushing the bare skin under the hem of her skirt and it's such a silly little gesture, and it means nothing to him and that's the sad part because to Hitch it means the world.

She traces one of the scars on his chest with her finger, something she knows he doesn't like. But it gets his attention enough for her to ask, "What's wrong?"

And now, he's the one that's staring. His eyes look sad and his jaw locks, which causes a muscle on his jawbone to flicker.

"Tell me," she whispers, tracing the shell of his ear. "You know you can tell me anything."

"It's just… It's complicated."

"And…?"

"Private."

Hitch's eyes shrink. "You're kidding me." He's not. "Eren, I've sucked your dick. How are you talking to me about privacy?"

Despite himself, he laughs.

"Tell me," she persists, slapping him on the arm when he cups his face with both his hands and groans into them. "Tell me, tell me, tell me. Or am I gonna have to bully it out of you? Don't make me bully it out of you, Eren. You know I'll do it if I have to."

"Ugh, okay, fine." Her catty eyes crinkle. Eren scowls at her grin. "Promise me you won't laugh."

"I won't laugh."

"Promise me."

"I promise!"

He's silent for a moment. She eyes the beads of sweat that glisten on the hollow junction of his collarbones, fighting the urge to lean in and taste them. His hair's a mess, long strands all wild and tousled by her hands. He may not return her feelings, but that's okay, for there are glimpses of glory in the vestiges of herself she finds scattered on him here and there. His eyes are fixed on her back, following the slow line his knuckles draw up her spine and it's at times like this that Hitch could close her eyes and pretend that they're decent people, losing themselves in one another without a fault in the world.

"It's about Mikasa," he admits. And suddenly, she's not feeling all that glorious anymore.

"Ah."

"I'm worried, Hitch."

She sighs out of her nose, running a hand through her sweaty hair. "About?"

"Her fiance." His hand stops cold on her back. "I don't know, I'm just… I don't think she's happy with him."

"What makes you think that?"

"Many things. She's lonely. I can see it in her eyes. I feel like she's not herself at all anymore."

"People change, Eren."

Now, his eyes meet hers. He's frowning. "I know, but she shouldn't be what she is now. She's this sad, helpless little creature and that's not the Mikasa I've known my whole life. It just… It breaks my heart."

"Poor girl," Hitch yawns, rubbing her temples. Gosh, she needs a cigarette. Bad.

"Yeah," sighs the man beside her, with his pants still halfway down his legs and bare ass against her floor. She smirks at his present state, and is surprised when he doesn't inch away from her when her hand caresses the side of his face, a gesture that is reserved only for lovers and not for… well, whatever they are.

Slowly, he closes his eyes, as if he's about to submerge himself in slumber. His skin's still hot. Breath so dense that it could be smoke, the tendrils that rise from the burning end of a cigarette, fumes that fill her lungs and intoxicate her. He is her nicotine. Her drug. The medicine that both poisons and cures her, and she can't get enough.

"Annie told me that you spoke to her," she croons, thumbing his lower lip. "So the Leonhardt is your girlfriend now?"

"For now, yeah."

"I don't know how you managed it."

He snorts. "Neither do I."

For a moment, his gaze remains on hers, and she delves into the colors of his irises. They're green, like her own eyes, but where hers are soft and hazel, his are bright and mixed with blue. An impossible hue that can only be described as what happens when a forest meets the sky. If the tops of trees were to mix in with the heavens, and all of nature would fuse and twist like paint instead of end on separate points, his eyes would've foretold the grandeur of such beauty, for they've always held it on their own.

"Anyways," she grunts, perching her chin on the palm of her hand. "So about this plan of yours… What's the deal?"

"I'm gonna try my best to see how she's doing. If she's happy, then I'll leave her alone. If she's not… well…"

"You'll try to win her back?"

"No. I haven't decided yet." There's Eren Jaeger for ya. Always gotta be the hero.

God, it pisses her off.

"Can I ask you something, Eren?"

"Sure," he hisses, fidgeting on his back. "But make it quick, my ass is cold."

She smiles, but it's quick to fade. "Do you have feelings for her?"

_Five, four, three, two… _

"I should go."

_One. _

And he pretends that he didn't even hear her.

"Of course," Hitch scoffs, dropping her head defeatedly. He rises off the floor and she can hear him pulling his pants up, his zipper closing, belt buckle clinking, all these little signs that he's about to go. It makes her chest hurt, it really does.

Her nails scrape the hardwood floor, following the line of a small ridge and she hears him sniffling behind her, looking for his shirt. It always ends this way: him removing himself from her apartment, erasing all the hints that indicate he was once there, save for the condom in her trash can and his smell on her skin. It's as if he never even fucked her.

"Oh!" he blurts out suddenly. "I almost forgot. She's coming to the New Year's party."

"She is?"

"Yes. Please, all I ask is that you're nice to her. That's all I ask."

Hitch rolls her eyes, not even bothering to turn over and look at him. "I'm not making any promises."

"Hitch."

"No."

"You're gonna scare her off!"

"Fuck you. She isn't my problem, Jaeger."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Yeah. Why should I give a shit about how she feels? She's your issue, not mine."

He's silent for a moment, and she can feel his glare on her back. When he speaks, his tone is much too quiet for her liking.

"Fine," so soft, so soft. It's daunting.

She hears him get his keys and pull his shirt on, walk briskly to the door and wrench it open. He's pissed. He slams the door shut so hard that the floor shakes.

_Way to go, Hitch. Way to fucking go._

She takes her time putting her bra back on and picking her blouse up from the floor before walking over to the phone. With a sigh, she dials his phone number. She waits.

Two rings later and, "_What?"_

"Alright, idiot. I'll do it."

"_Do what?"_

"It."

"_What, Hitch?" _

She grits the words through her teeth, nostrils flaring. "I'll be nice to Mikasa."

A pause.

"_Really?"_

"Yes," she sighs, scratching her nose. "God. In fact, I'll even take it a step further. You say she's lonely so…"

"_So…?"_

"So…" Ugh. No. Please, don't make her say it.

"_So what, Hitch?"_

"So… I'll try to be her… her… um… her f-f-f… f… f-friend_._" It burns.

His laugh is so worth it, though. "_Will you really?"_

"I hope she likes dick jokes, because yes."

He hangs up.

"Eren?"

No answer.

But before Hitch can connect the handset with its base, the front door springs open and a cool breeze attacks her face. She's about to take in a breath to speak, but Eren grabs her face and plants a hard kiss on her lips, pulling away with a smile so wide that his eyes glow.

"Thank you," he beams. Flushed, Hitch slaps him on the chest.

"You're ridiculous."

**—o—**

Soap suds creep between the spaces of her fingers, clinging to the ever-chipping nail polish on her nails. Jean's mother likes to say that a woman's hands and feet say a lot about her hygiene. A scoff, for Mikasa's feet have long been squandered by countless hours on her toes, their crooked shapes consequential of too much time spent on pointe, too many days spent dancing and hopping and twisting in circles. And her hands, Lord, they've gone through too much and they show it. So, if she is to be judged by that logic, then she's "a girl that needs to learn some self-respect," as Mrs. Kirschstein would so kindly comment.

Despite the unpleasant thought however, Mikasa's mind is unnaturally calm today. Jean didn't have to work, so they spent the day lounging and playing with Jiji, talking about movies and his job and whatever else. And after laying on the couch for hours, whispering about nothing as if they have any sorts of secrets to keep, chuckling quietly to one another, taking naps in each other's arms, groaning when their arms got sore or when Jean would kick Mikasa's leg in his sleep or Mikasa would drool or accidentally sneeze on him (which, okay, was actually really funny) or Jiji would hop onto the two of them and use them as his own personal bed, they'd decided to cook dinner and make up for lost time. Since Jean was the cook, Mikasa was the one responsible for washing dishes. And despite her objections, he insisted that he'd help.

So she washes, and he dries, and one would think that they'd have less dishes to clean considering that it's just the two of them, but nope. Somehow, whenever Jean cooks, he manages to create a mountain of dirty dishes. It's incredible. Mikasa's dragging lazy circles on a plate with the sponge when she feels him press a kiss to her temple.

"You're humming," he grins. She hadn't known that she was.

"I'm just happy."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Well, then I'm happy too." Another kiss, on the lips this time.

"You taste like marinara sauce," she snorts.

"So do you."

"Mmm." One more kiss. Another. Two more and then his hand latches onto her waist, but instead of pulling her closer, he nudges her away.

"We should finish," spews the smirk on his lips. He nods at the dishes she's still cleaning, and smiles at her pout. "We're almost done."

When they kiss again, it's well after all the plates have been washed and put away, and Jean's changing into more "presentable" clothes for his meeting later with his father. She offers to help him with his tie, which she uses as a means to pull him closer, lure his mouth to crash with hers. Seconds tick away on the clock by their nightstand, and her breath is tangled in her throat by the time he's laving kisses down her neck, eliciting a lightness on her feet that makes her feel faint, as if she could fall back from the force of his body pushed against hers. He holds her steady, hands to her waist, hers on his shoulders.

"Jean," she gasps, bereft of air.

"Hah?"

Her lips find his ear, offer a whisper: "Come to bed."

"It's five o'clock," he chuckles.

"That's not what I mean."

He groans, and it's not a sound she wants to hear. It's frustrated. He pulls back to look at her, and she has to fight the urge to ram his head back down to her neck. She sighs out of equal frustration.

"Baby, I'd love to, but I have to leave in like ten minutes."

"Can't you be a little late?"

"Can't. You know how the boss is with his meetings."

"You're only going out for drinks."

"Yeah, but it's Dad. You know how he is."

It hits her how needy she's being, how whiny she sounds. Embarrassed, she fixes the fallen strap of her dress back over her shoulder, giving his tie a final tug to secure it into place. He makes a choked noise. Good.

"What?" Jean frowns, loosening the tie's grip on his neck. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"No." He brings a hand up to cradle her face, passing the pad of his thumb over the thin arch of her eyebrow. "What is it? Talk to me."

Her plea is so small, she doubts he even hears her. "I just wish you'd stay home at least once."

But he does. "I stayed home all day today."

"I know."

"Then, what's the problem?"

So many things are the problem, Jean. So many things.

For one, your mother sucks. As do your friends. They're all horrible. Nasty, nasty people they are. And your fiancee rarely ever sees you anymore. You haven't made love to her in ages because you're always either too drunk or too tired and wow, she may be shy and quiet but she still has needs and she misses your warmth on her bed and your arms hugged tight around her and your soft skin pulsing with every beat of your heart and you, just you in general. She needs you so much.

So what is it? Why do you reject her? Why do you brush her off? Do you just not like her anymore? Is she not attractive to you? Has she done something wrong?

A crease pops out between her eyebrows. She scowls at a wrinkle on his shirt, and maybe it's wrong of her to think these things, for she knows Jean is a busy man, and what they're going through right now is just an interval, a respite before their life together picks back up again. But she'd be lying if she said she doesn't yearn for his hands to linger on places they're so quick to leave these days, to have him console old wounds when they randomly reopen, instead of having to treat them all on her own. They're partners. Lovers. Husband and wife. And why doesn't it feel that way anymore? What has changed? What's gone wrong between them?

Because he's hardly ever there anymore, she finds herself memorizing the sound of his voice, the prickle of his stubble, the softness of his hair and his touch because she goes days without experiencing them. It makes her wonder if things have truly changed for the better after moving in together. Because once upon a time, he couldn't bear to live a day without her, shooting her messages and phone calls that lasted hours even if they were mostly just him talking and her throwing in a word or two to show that she was still listening. And he'd show up randomly at her house with flowers because their scent made him think of her. And she'd catch him staring at her, or smiling to quietly after she'd speak, as if he were proud of himself for getting a word out of her. And once upon a time, he'd blushed and stammered and asked her to be his girlfriend, and he'd gaped at her when she'd said yes. And he'd been so chaste when he linked their hands together that one afternoon at the beach. And he'd been so careful when he'd first brought his lips to hers after a night out at the movies. And he'd asked for her consent that night she'd let him stay over, closing his eyes as he sat beside her on the bed and she took off her bra, not even cracking one eye open until she'd held his cheek and told him that it's okay to look. And he'd cried when she'd agreed to marry him. And he'd promised her a good life when she said she'd go with him to this city. And he's been the only other man she's let into her life, her body, her heart, ever. And now things are different, that magic is gone. And she honestly can't explain why. Why? _Why?_

"I'm sorry," she apologizes, as if he had any insight into her thoughts. "I miss you, that's all."

"I miss you too." This time, he's the one that grabs her face and locks their lips together.

"Two minutes," she sighs into his mouth. He laughs.

"Are you asking for a quickie?"

"I'll take what I can get."

"You deserve much more than that. I'll try to make things brief with the old man, get back as soon as possible. Okay?" Of course. Of course it's okay. It's always okay. When hasn't it been? "Hey," he whispers, cupping her chin. "I love you."

She repeats the words. Nine letters, three syllables, five vowels.

"I love you."

Her fingers hook around his belt and pull him to her. Words are trampled in his mouth when her tongue invades the startled slit of his lips, a hum churning in her throat as her teeth tug at his lower lip. She lets it jerk back into place and smirks at the hazy look in his eyes, flattening his tie against his chest and letting her hands stay there.

"Have fun tonight," she coos, breathless. When he dives to kiss her again, she pulls back and shakes her head. "We can't, remember?" His hands frame her hips, thumbs denting skin through clothing, rubbing circles on her hipbones and it feels _so good._ She takes them in her own, guides them back and lower, lower, until they're sinking past the hem of her skirt and up the backs of her thighs to grope her ass. Golden eyes flicker over her features. She bites a moan against his lips, "You've got to go," pressing herself against him, "to that meeting."

"Fuck," he grunts. For a flicker of time, she's winning. He gives her ass cheeks a firm squeeze, and she's about to say something when his hand leaves her rear and finds that spot between her legs that aches.

"Jean―"

"Wait for me." He's grinding circles on her through the fabric of her panties. She rocks her hips, gasping. "Tonight," he murmurs, grinding slower. "Wait until tonight. I'll make you mine. I promise."

"I'm already yours," she breathes, eyelids fluttering. "Jean, I want―"

"Me?" He smiles, warm palms crawling up her body, eliciting a sigh. She throws her head back and feels his lips graze her neck, his fingers tug down the straps of her dress past her shoulders. His kisses are faint, teeth careful not to nip too hard so that not a single mark is left on her. He inhales her scent, plants a kiss on her bare clavicle.

"I want you," she musters, her voice shaky. Small.

"I want you too."

He licks a trail up her neck all the way to her jaw, the damp path he carves on her skin igniting. Mikasa's breathing deepens, dappled by a whine when his hands frame her breasts and push them up so that his mouth can reach them. His teeth graze her skin, and it takes her a moment to realize that her back's met their dresser. Trembling hands curve around the edge, nails rasp against the wood. Heart pounding in her chest, beating on his lips before they find her throat and murmur, "I can't wait to taste you." His hands are everywhere. His voice is everywhere. All she hears is her own breathing. All she feels is that damn _ache_. She bites her lip, rubs her thighs together to quell the yearning, but the low drawl of his voice and the heat of his breath on her skin aren't helping. "To watch you trying to hold in your little noises, squirming on your back. Right here," he taps her chest. "Turns this pretty shade of pink; it's my favorite. And your cheeks get all red. Your eyes go dark and heavy. Your breathless voice… It's so quiet." He smiles. "Until you scream, that is."

"I don't scream," she protests weakly, melting in his hands.

"Liar."

"I don't!"

"Oop. You're screaming."

"Jean!" she laughs, thumping her fists on his chests. He laughs too, pecking the pert tip of her nose.

"I love your laugh."

She pushes his hands off of her body, ignoring his protesting mewl. "See you tonight, then."

And as she walks away, she can practically feel his eyes burning through her ass. Her glory would've been longer lived, had he not muttered as she was halfway out the door, "'Kasa?"

She spins, raising her brows at him. Her cheeks flushed rosy, shoulders still bare.

"Yes?"

"I think you should go to that party."

Two stunned seconds. Two.

Then her stomach drops.

"Wh… What party?" There's a cold prick in her chest. She plummets from the high of their teasing, frantic heart beating in her throat.

"Sasha's New Year's party," her fiance clarifies, much to her horror. "It would be fun."

"Jean…"

"She told me she ran into you the other night on your way back." He pauses. Thinking. Serious. _Thinking. _"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I…" Shit. How could she think he'd go this long without finding out? She should've told him. She should've mentioned it sooner. What if he doesn't trust her now? What if this raises red flags? What if… God, and how he's looking at her. Is he hurt? He's hurt. You've hurt him, Mikasa. You've hurt your fiance.

"I didn't think it was important," she breathes. _Please don't be upset. Please._ "I was going to tell you…"

"That's okay," he smiles meekly, eyes falling to the floor. Suddenly, he's not this powerful, tall man, but a vulnerable, quiet creature. "You should go."

She's silent for a moment, gauging his reaction. "Really?"

"Yeah, it could be good for you. You know, get out for once. Make some new friends."

"Right."

"I… I was thinking, you know… Since I'll be at work, that way you won't be all on your own. Plus, I know Sasha will take good care of you."

"So you…" she clears her throat. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not," Jean laughs. "Why would I? I'll pick you up there when I get out of work. Sound good?" She nods, more out of plain shock than anything. He's awfully calm, but what did Mikasa even expect him to be in the first place? Furious? Sad? Does she not know him well enough by now to predict his reactions?

The floor creaks beneath his feet as he approaches her. She thinks, for a brief second, that perhaps he'll take her and finish off what they started, remind her of his position in her life. But instead, his hand finds hers and he plays with the engagement ring on her finger, twisting it left and right.

In this lighting and proximity, he looks so young, younger than she's ever seen him. She brings a finger to his lips, just to feel them, just to feel that he's here. And he's so quick to kiss it. Of course he is. It's Jean. Her tender, loving Jean. She knows him. She knows him.

It's just like him to say, "I'll cook you a big dinner. We can take a bath, light some candles, put some music on. We'll have our own little party at home with Mr. Pringles."

She smiles. A warmth spreads over her chest, thawing the cold spike that had worried her earlier. "That sounds great."

He pecks her forehead. "Perfect."

Again, Mikasa is halfway gone when he utters, "Um… baby?"

She stops, re-appearing by the door jamb. "Hmm?"

But he doesn't speak. His mouth opens for a moment, then falls shut. He shakes his head, swallows what he was just about to say to her.

"Nothing. Never mind."

**—o—**

_Brr… Brr… Brra… _

Okay. You can do it, Mikasa. Just press the button. Press the thing. Just… bring… your… finger… right… on… there… and… press!

_Brrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap!_

Wonderful. Now everyone and their mothers knows she's here.

_Brraaaaaaaaaap! _

Just for good measure.

Okay, jeans. Eren told her to wear jeans. So she's wearing jeans. And a shirt. Yeah. She's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and her scarf. The red one. Red. Like her fingertips. Why isn't she wearing gloves? What an idiot. She should've brought gloves. It's cold. There's no snow, but it's cold as balls. Are balls cold? Nah, they're not. Fuck, her nipples are hard. They hurt. Shit. Press the button.

_Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap!_

One minute. If Eren doesn't answer in one minute, then she's breaking down the door. She can do it. One kick. She may be skinny as a twig but her legs are still strong. Hell yeah. Crush a man's head between her thighs. Fuck yeah. Not that anyone's head has been between her thighs lately. Sigh. Anyway, no. That's not important. One minute. One. Never mind. Hurting nipples. Press the button. Go.

_Brap! Brap! Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap!_

Hurry up, Eren! Think of her soon-to-be frostbitten fingers! Think of her shivering! Think of her nipples!

"_Yeah?" _Thank Jesus. It's his voice. Sleepy and groggy and a little slow, but it's Eren's voice that breaks out of the intercom.

"Eren?" she shivers, his name reviving on her tongue. She blames the cold for her trouble breathing.

"_Oh, hey," _he croaks, with a livelier lilt in his voice. "_Mikasa. How are you?"_

"Cold."

"_Aw, I'm sorry." _He's quiet for a second. And then, "_Wait! Shit, right. Hold on. I'll open the door for ya."_

She smiles to herself, fixing the scarf around her neck so that it covers her nose.

And she waits.

Breathing through the fabric, inhaling her own scent on her clothes.

God, Eren_._ He probably just woke up. What time is it? She glances down at her wristwatch. It's a little after two. Yeah, he most _definitely_ just woke up.

But when the door flies open, it's a different set of bright eyes and wild, tousled hair that greets her.

"Welcome!"

"Oh," Mikasa pulls the scarf down from her face. "Sasha."

"It's so good to see you!" the woman chirps, glancing down at her jeans. Despite her cheery tone, her face falls. "Did you… um, did you bring clothes?"

"Cl…" Mikasa shakes her head at a frowning Sasha. "Clothes?"

"Yeah, silly! Clothes! For the party!"

"Well, no. I didn't."

"Then what're you gonna wear?"

"Um…" Mikasa extends her arms at her sides, presenting herself. "This?"

Sasha's eyes fall to her jeans again. She frowns even deeper. Scowls, really. "Oh, no, honey. That won't do."

Bemused lips part to protest, but then a voice appears behind them like a ghost.

"Shit," it says. Mikasa doesn't need to wait for Sasha to spin out of the way to know that it's Eren.

And it is.

And she sees him.

And everything is perfectly still. His eyes. Sasha's. Their breathing.

Butterflies dance in her belly, tug at her gut.

Her heart forgets its usual rhythm, picking up a dance of frantic kicking and thrashing in her chest.

A flutter. A tune. The outstretched wings of a song that takes flight into something grander, something louder, wilder, alive. The silence they share is the music of old friends, as quiet as the whispers of time, as rich as memory.

Something sings.

_Go on._

So she follows. Takes a step, crosses the threshold into his apartment building. Dust particles float in the air and shimmer like snow crystals. Some crunch underfoot, sticking to the soles of her boots. The apples of her cheeks are cold and rosy, thawing with a ruddiness that suggests the flush of embarrassment. She's been here before, in this very spot, in this very position. Everything is different. Everything's the same. Everything is silent, save for Sasha's sudden burst, "Jaeger! Did you tell Mikasa to wear jeans for tonight?"

He rubs the heel of his palm on his eye. His hair's a mess. Clothes ruffled from tossing around in his sleep. Voice hoarse, croaky. "Yeah, why?"

"Men," Sasha tells Mikasa. "They're so clueless."

"You know, I'm standing right here," he waves a hand over his face, squinting at her. "I can hear everything you're saying."

Mikasa smiles.

That's when he looks at her. Stares.

"Good!" Sasha grins, then snatches her right arm in one swift motion, linking it with hers. "I'll be borrowing her for a bit. Is that okay?"

Mikasa realizes that she's still smiling, and it's hard to stop when his clouded gaze clings to hers, when his sleepy mouth curls into a smile.

"She's all yours," he says.

Sasha's shriek is loud enough to make them both cringe. "Sweet! We're gonna have so much fun, Mikasa. I just know it!" She goes to whisk her away into her apartment, but Eren protests before they can make it to the door.

"Wait!" They stop, turn. He barely whispers, "Hey."

He's talking to Mikasa. Only Mikasa. The rest of the world melts away.

"Hello," she breathes, her arm still trapped in Sasha's. He's standing on the stairs, looking so disheveled that it makes her laugh. Her voice is jittery and insecure, thrashing about in her throat like her heartbeat. It beats faster, faster; and maybe his does too, because he flattens a hand on his chest as if he were trying to calm it.

_Hush,_ she whispers in her soul. _Calm down, heart._

It doesn't listen.

"How are you?" Eren asks her. She inflates, elation filling her lungs.

"I'm good. You?"

"Good." He swallows, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Just woke up."

"Oh." A smile. "I can tell."

"Hah." A scoff. A soft sigh, and, "Yeah… I didn't sleep much."

They stare at one another. Both take in an inhale, but it's Mikasa's voice that cracks the silence.

"You excited for tonight?"

A pause.

"Oh, yeah. You?"

Another.

"Nervous."

"Don't be. You'll be fine."

Silence again. Then it's Eren's voice.

"How's uh… Jean, is it?"

"Yes. He's at work."

"Of course."

She sighs, her pulse on her lips. "Did you have your coffee yet?"

"Not yet."

"You should do that."

"Yeah, I will."

They both laugh. A light, simultaneous giggle. Nervous. Light. So soft.

"Okay," Mikasa utters, not knowing what else to say. He's still staring. She doesn't mind.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four seconds just standing there. And they would've spent more if it wasn't for Sasha's sudden exclamation:

"Welp! Super duper! Let's a go! See ya!"

That's when the world shifts and Mikasa is tugged into a foreign apartment, a rude awakening from the subtle moment Eren and her just shared. Her gaze no longer holds the colors of the earth and sky, instead now gawks at a pair of big, brown eyes that question, "Alright. Too much?"

She stammers, shocked. "I'm… T-too much what?"

"I had to put up a convincing act for Eren," Sasha explains, crinkling her nose. "He's worried that we won't be friendly enough to help you branch out. But now I'm thinking that I overdid it."

The raven nods, admitting, "A bit."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." A whole lotta bit, if she's honest.

"Shit." Sasha chews on her lip, thinking. She tilts her head to the side. "How did Jean react to you coming here?"

"He's alright with it."

"Good. I told him I ran into you in the middle of the street. Not once did I mention Mr. Bright Eyes up there." She nods to where they left Eren standing outside, and Mikasa does a poor job of concealing her sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

"It's alright. Jean's my friend, but so is Eren. And if there's one thing I know about that fruit fucker is that he's a good guy, and he cares about you. I can tell. Any friend of his is a friend of mine."

"Thank you," she repeats. She doesn't know what else to say to her.

They're still standing at the door. Mikasa's eyes stray to the living room, yearning to go in, or even back out to Eren with his bedhead and sleepy eyes and sleepy voice and sleepy smile; his sleepy clothes and his sleepy self keeping Sasha from taking her away until he's said hi to her. Something's changed between them. She can feel it. There's an… _ease_ that wasn't there before. A comfort. Just thinking about it makes her heart beat faster.

Oh, gosh. She's smiling again.

_Shut up, heart. Shh!_

"I just… I get this vibe, you know?" Sasha continues. Boy, she's a talker. "Like, you two… you've got this connection. It's rare to find friendships like that. And I know that Jean tends to be… a little on the jealous side at times. So don't worry, girl. Not a peep shall spill from these lips of mine."

"You're very kind."

She shrugs, "'S no biggie," and potters over to the kitchen, leaving Mikasa where she stands.

"Come in!" she squeaks when she doesn't move. "Take a seat. Make yourself at home. It's nothing great but it serves its purpose."

Tentative, Mikasa follows suit. She shivers out of her coat, hangs it up by a coat hanger against the wall before taking a seat at the small breakfast table by the fridge. Sasha's apartment is messy like Eren's, but instead of books and dust, she's got art hanging everywhere, taking up most of her wall space and adding more color than she's ever seen going on at the same time. It speaks volumes of her personality, like different genres of music playing all at once, filling the air with a noise that somehow translates to a song so attuned, so in harmony with itself, it becomes its own whole celebration.

"You know, I've seen you at those parties Jean always takes you to," Sasha says, starting up the coffee machine. It whirrs to life, complaining. "You look miserable."

Mikasa sighs, setting her purse down on the table. "Do I?"

"God yes. Jean may not see it, but I always do. You know what I think it is?"

"What?"

"You and me, we have a lot in common. You're not from around here, are you?" She smirks when she shakes her head. "Let me guess. Grew up in the woods? You father was a hunter? People used to make fun of you in elementary school for the way you talk?"

Mikasa blinks, surprised at her accuracy. "Yes."

Sasha gives her ponytail a firm tug, lips splitting into a grin. "Same here. It's rough being an outsider. I could smell your distress from a mile away."

Onyx eyes falls to the engagement ring on her finger; they frown. If Sasha could notice her distress as she says that she could, why did she never talk to her? She could've saved her a lot of nights of following Jean around awkwardly like a crooked tail.

"I don't talk to anyone in those places," she says suddenly, reading her expression, her thoughts. "The only reason I even go to those gatherings is because my family has close ties with Jean's. They're business partners. I've gotta tag along with Ma and Pa to 'represent'. But then, the second I open my mouth and a 'fuck' comes out, I've shamed my family. I'm to be shunned and cast away into the sea to let the sharks have me."

"Wow," Mikasa mutters, shifting in her seat. "I'm sorry to hear that."

An awkward silence follows. The apartment sits quietly, the art on the walls breathing stories they may never tell, quelling her burgeoning discomfort. The coffee maker sputters. Sasha attends it for a moment, brews herself a pot.

"So," she drawls, her back to Mikasa. "How did you and Eren meet?"

The girl smiles to herself, thinking fondly of the memory. "A mutual friend introduced us when we were little. He helped me get through a lot."

"Like?"

"A lot of stuff."

"Mmm. So you guys go way back then."

"Yes." She looks around, admiring a painting on the wall beside her. It's a portrait of someone she's never seen before. "How about you? How did you meet him?"

"God, it was so long ago. We've been neighbors for ages."

Mikasa's eyes widen. "I was neighbors with him too."

Sasha turns, smiling. "Yeah? Wow. Then you must know what pain he is to live with." That, she sure does. "He's been here since leaving his hometown after some nasty incident or somethin' some six years ago, I think. Never talks much about it. Boy, he was weird."

"Was he?"

"Oh, yeah. Took him months before he even said a word to me, and my father's his landlord. He's alright now. I mean, he's gotten better. But the first year he lived here was… I don't know. Harsh."

"How so?"

Sasha's sigh is long. And sad. "Well, he had night terrors. Nightmares. Not sure exactly what to call them, but they were bad. Really bad. They're better now, though." She smiles, but Mikasa doesn't return it, so she clears her throat. "Anyway, so Hitch and I got pretty sick of being woken up in the middle of the night by a bunch of ruckus after he moved in, and we didn't know what to do about it. He was such a sad, helpless thing. I could've just told Dad to kick him out or something, but I took pity on him. A good thing, too. He's got his shit together now. I must say, I'm kind of proud of him."

"I see." This is the first time Mikasa hears about his life after everything that happened. She finds herself feeling a mixture of sadness and relief. It's good to hear that he is better now, but to find out that he suffered through nights like that all on his own… It haunts her.

"Do you know anything about that?" Sasha asks her, not seeing the way she stiffens in her chair. "Why he has nightmares? Can't sleep? I'm telling you, I've known him for years and he's never told me. But his scars… and there's just… I don't know. You can tell that he's gone through shit. As far as I know, he doesn't even have any family left alive. That's heartbreaking."

"I'm sorry," Mikasa says, picking at some lint on her jeans, sighing. She stares down at her hands. They're moving, registering touch, feeling, the coarse fabric of her jeans. And yet they don't feel like they belong to her, more like extensions of a body that she inhabits, but that isn't hers. "I can't really say why he is that way." And even if she could, she wouldn't tell her.

"I understand. But I reckon you were there, eh?"

Her eyes flick up to meet Sasha's. She's got a finger pointed to her right cheekbone, referring to Mikasa's scar.

"Please," she's quick to whisper, her voice so faint it barely escapes the tautness of her lips. She brings a hand up to her forehead, as if the topic were giving her a headache. And it is. "Let's not talk about this."

"Sorry." Sasha's apology is respectful. She doesn't bring the topic back up again. "Anyway, so what are you?"

A sigh so long that it lingers in the air for a moment. All this talk of sad things… Mikasa wants it to stop. She wants to be with Eren. Not here. It's nothing against Sasha, but how could she explain that perfectly benign, normal questions like _how are you?_ or _what are you?_ or _hello, what's your name?_ bring with them such sad, complicated answers because she's such a sad, complicated being as of late. With Eren, there's no answers needed, no explaining to be done because he already knows all the answers to every question. And even if he doesn't, he knows only the right ones to ask.

"I used to dance ballet," she says simply, _used to_ ringing in her soul. Her muscles ache with memory, lazy coils winding up the tendons that once stretched and flowed so well. A dancer who no longer dances. That's what she is. A dud. Pathetic.

"Ooh, ballet," Sasha chippers, swiveling to smile at her. "Like Historia."

"Pardon?"

"You know, the little blondie chick? The cutie patootie?" She holds a hand out, referring to the blonde's small stature. "She's a dancer."

Mikasa's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. "Oh, really?"

"Yep! She's got a stage name and everything. Ever heard of Christa Lenz?"

"Historia is Christa Lenz?!"

"Yuppers."

"Holy poop," she gasps, slapping a hand on her cheek. Sasha cackles.

"Tell me about it. Her father owns a dance academy and everything. Good stuff. Coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"Hot chocolate it is." She grins when Mikasa perks up suddenly. "Eren told me about your love for chocolate. Another thing we have in common, you and I."

Mikasa doesn't object to the offer, muttering a "thank you" under her breath. She's learned to say yes a lot more often, it seems. And to what can she blame this new habit of hers? Age? Her lack of social skills? Boredom? _Eren?_

While Sasha prepares her drink, they discuss her profession. She's a baker, apparently. A cake artist. A pastry chef. And yes, there's a difference between all three—and she's all of them. Her passion for food surpassed her need to satisfy her parents, as she claims to have aspired to do something more along her father's line of work until she turned sixteen, and decided that her life was her own to make, not her parents' to dictate.

She owns a cafe of some sort, where french pastries and stuff of the like are sold and she gets to converse with friendly regulars and satisfy her sweet tooth. It's a good, simple life, she says. Good enough for her, which is all that truly matters. "I know that if I were to die randomly tomorrow, I would be content with knowing that I lived a good life, made something of myself―and did it _my_ way," she tells Mikasa as she pours some whipped cream over both their drinks. And a prick of jealousy stings her heart. If only she could say the same thing for herself. If only.

"Anyway," Sasha says when they both hold mugs in their hands, blowing at the steam that rises from her coffee. She practically inhaled the whipped cream off of it just seconds after serving herself. She really wasn't joking when she said she had a sweet tooth. Mikasa finds this aspect of her to be quirky, cute. She's so genuine and real. A human being, not a puppet of power and wealth, as she's so used to seeing lately.

"So you're nervous for tonight?" the sugar addict questions.

Mikasa slurps a sip of her hot chocolate. "Yes. Very."

"Bah, you'll have fun, girl. Don't worry. Just a warning though: we're a weird bunch."

"Oh, I know."

"Ah, yeah. You've already met Ymir." Sasha throws her head back with a chortle, slapping a hand on the side of her thigh. "Ha! Wait till you see her tonight when she's sober. She's a real trip."

Mikasa smirks into her drink, whipped cream and hot chocolate shrouding her tastebuds with a tinge of sweetness. Why is it that everytime she's anywhere away from home she finds herself indulging? Whether it be in chocolate, or in the presence of a past lover, or the foreign friendliness of a stranger, she tests herself and tempts fate, tittering around the forbidden, the exciting, the impossible. And for what? To prove a point to whom? Herself? Is she that bored with her life already?

Sasha disrupts her string of thoughts, announcing, "Annie's coming too."

Mikasa straightens at the mention of Eren's love interest. "Oh?"

"Have you met Annie?"

"No. Isn't she Eren's…?"

"Ahhh… Yeah! Yeah, yeah." Sasha clears her throat, obscuring her gaze from her. Why won't she meet her eyes? "She's his hubba hub."

"So they're back together now." It sounds more like a statement rather than a question. Nonetheless, Sasha responds.

"Yup!"

"Good for them."

"Mhm!"

Something feels a little… off. And it's not the hot chocolate.

But before Mikasa can begin to form speculations, the door reverberates with such ferocious, loud pounding that it rattles at the hinges and shakes the walls.

"Jesus!" Sasha jolts, nearly dropping her coffee.

"Sash!" shouts a muffled voice outside. "Why's your door locked?"

"Hold on!"

"Open it, bitch!"

"I'm coming!"

There's more pounding. Sasha's feet scramble along the floor, racing to end the dreadful knocking.

The door swings open, and a very disgruntled Hitch pops into the apartment like a fucking whack-a-mole.

She's opening her mouth to speak, stomping right in like if she were right at her own home, but Sasha's distressed plea and Mikasa's presence stalls her.

"We have a visitor," Sasha peeps up from behind her. "So be normal."

Her cool eyes land on Mikasa. Whatever words she was about to say extinguished on her tongue.

"Oh," she drones, unamused. "Hello."

"Hi," the raven says, just as blandly.

"You're Eren's friend."

"I am."

"He said you're coming tonight."

"Yes."

"Yippee."

"Hitch," Sasha scolds, giving her a light shove from behind to spur her onward. "Stop being weird."

Hitch scoffs and waltzes her way over into the kitchen. "I'm not being weird." She pours herself a cup of coffee, stealing a mug from one of the cabinets she's familiar enough to recognize as the cupboard. Without pouring sugar or creamer into her drink, she takes a sip of her coffee (straight black, she's hardcore like that) and peers over at Mikasa, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "Sorry." she says to her, and that has to be, truly, the most humane thing Hitch has ever said to her.

"It's alright," Mikasa assures her, glancing down at her feet. She can feel her eyes on her, scrutinizing, sharp as they always are. And she thinks perhaps a rude remark will follow. She will comment on her attire, express disapproval like Sasha had done; click her tongue and shake her head and say something mean or sarcastic. But none of these offences come. Her honey-hazel eyes leave her, and Mikasa is pushed to a corner of her consciousness, no longer worthy of her attention, it seems.

And when Hitch strikes up a conversation with Sasha, discussing events only they are familiar with, Mikasa sits and watches them. Their exchanges are witty and easy, Sasha's more benign nature somehow complimenting Hitch's snarky one instead of clashing, the opposites tend to do. They get one another, finish each other's sentences and figuring what the other means before they have finished talking. They're friends, and as Mikasa stares, she wonders if perhaps she ever looks this way herself. In retrospect, she really only has one friend:

Eren.

Is this what they look like when they're together? Two people who just… understand. Do they speak their own unique dialect, the way these two do? Sasha laughs at all of Hitch's jokes, and despite how scarce they are, even Hitch's chuckles bounce out of her lips once or twice and fix the mood into something so easy, so pleasant and right.

Friendship comes with its own brand of love. Mikasa had almost forgotten how wonderful it feels, but as she watches the girls talk back and forth, she is reminded. She isn't feeling bored or left out in the slightest, but when Hitch glances her way, she seems to decide otherwise.

Her feline body prowls her way, and then, without so much as a single word of acknowledgement, it plops onto the chair across from hers. In her own way, Mikasa appreciates the gesture. Hitch is trying to include her into the conversation as well. But this doesn't make her any less intimidating.

"Auuurrgghhhhh!" she yells, throwing her head back. "I need sex!"

"You just had sex yesterday," Sasha retorts. "Much to my hearing's displeasure." Oh, poor woman.

"I need more!"

"You have it every day!"

"It's not enough!"

"Oh, my God, Hitch."

"I'm sexually frustrated, okay?"

Sasha is commenting something about Hitch being the most "sexually active sexually frustrated person" when Mikasa gives out a sad sigh, thinking, _I know the feeling._

Suddenly, everything goes quiet. With a flush of embarrassment, she realizes why Hitch and Sasha stare.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"Uh oh," Sasha coos, pouting. "Is Jeanbo not giving you the cookie?"

The what?

"No, that's… That's not…"

Hitch narrows her eyes at her, bringing the mug up to her mouth. "Mm. I think Jeanbo's not giving her the cookie." Her peachy lips stretch into a smile. "Look at her blush! Oh, you poor thing, you're sex deprived!"

Sasha agrees. "Cookie deprived."

"Famished."

"I— What?"

"Ha! We're just teasing ya," she laughs, winking at Hitch.

Oh, Jesus.

"That's the good thing about Eren though, right?" the catty smirk purrs. "He's like the gift that keeps on giving."

It takes Mikasa a few moments to realize what Hitch is insinuating.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, sinking her gaze to the cooling hot chocolate in her hands. "I wouldn't know." Because when in doubt, you lie. Isn't that how it goes?

Hitch, however, downright screams. "Wha-hat?!" An outrage. "Don't tell me you've never… Oh, my God. You never…?"

Mikasa frowns. "Never what?"

"Eren. Have you two ever—?" She makes hand signals.

A small circle with one hand.

A finger entering it with the other.

"Oh, goodness," Mikasa gasps.

"You haven't?!" Hitch guffaws. "And you've known him, what, all your life?"

"Hitch. Come on, now," Sasha chides, eying her sternly.

"Seriously! But, I mean, just look at him! I don't understand how you could resist him. Nobody can resist him."

"Apparently, some people can."

"So you've never even thought about it?"

"No," Mikasa deadpans. "I have not."

"What, you don't find him cute?"

"I just don't see him that way, Hitch."

Silence.

Sasha slurps her coffee.

Hitch squints her eyes at her.

Mikasa swallows.

The silence breaks.

"So you're telling me you've never wanted to sit on his face."

"Hitch!" Sasha wails, choking.

"You've never looked at his fingers and just, like, _known_."

"Hitch."

"Or wondered what his lips might feel like on your neck, his breath all hot on your ear as he whispers dirty shit into it?"

"_Hitch."_

"Oh, come on! Don't tell me you've never noticed those cute lil' dimples at the small of his back and wondered what they might feel like under your hands as he—"

"Hitch! Seriously, that's enough."

"What? We're just talking."

"It's not an appropriate topic."

"Why not?"

"Because, hello? She's engaged? To be married?"

Hitch _pfffft_'s, some tiny drops of spit sputtering out of her mouth. "So?"

"So you shouldn't be asking her these things!"

"Don't be stupid, Sash. Just cause she's got a ring around her finger doesn't mean she doesn't have her own mind! Right?" Her eyes dig around for approval, finding none. "Okay, fine, whatever. I'm just saying, if I were you, I would've ridden that horse a long time ago."

Sasha sighs.

Mikasa makes a show of taking a long sip of her hot chocolate, but her nose is buried in the mug to shield their eyes from the blush spreading on her cheeks. With her throat this tight, she cannot bring herself to swallow.

How is she supposed to keep a straight face during all this? Of course she's noticed all those things. She was with him for years! He took her virginity, for crying out loud. But Mikasa can't be honest, can she? What would be of them if she admitted their past? If she confessed all the firsts he took from her, all the things they did behind her parent's back…

Poop. Her face feels hot. The last thing she needs right now is to think of him that way. It's absurd. It's wrong. Never mind the many nights she snuck into his room while Armin was sleeping and slipped under the covers to feel his warmth, how she wouldn't fall asleep unless he was beside her. And sometimes, he'd wake up. And they'd do more than just sleep. And she'd have to remind him that they needed to be quiet because Armin slept just a room away and he'd say "he's deaf, Mik" but still, no, shut up. _Shut up._ Why is she thinking these things? Oh, God.

They're silent for long enough that the topic seems to have drifted off. But then Hitch looks up from her coffee, and dead straight into her eyes.

"Mikasa," she rasps. "Tell me. Would you fuck him?"

"Hitch Dreyse!"

"What? I'm just asking her a question!" She waves Sasha's wail away, turning to face a gaping Mikasa. "Listen, if you ever get tired of your man and you're looking for something sweet to wrap your legs around, I totally recommend him."

Sasha moans. "Forgive her."

"I mean, he's just… _oof!_"

"Hitch."

"For days, for days."

"Hitch."

"Four _hours_."

"Hitch."

"Sweaty. Rough. Intense."

"Sweet baby Jesus."

"You won't even be able to _walk_. And when he's hard? Ho-ho! You could chip a fucking tooth on that thing!"

"Ew!"

"I mean, talk about being. Really. Fucking. _**HU**_—"

"**OKAY THAT'S ENOUGH!**"

Sasha's hand stops Hitch's mouth from puking out more. But the damage is done. Mikasa's entire face, and even the tips of her ears, are on fire.

"I would rather _not_ think of my best friend's junk, if you don't mind!" Sasha yelps, groaning in disgust when Hitch licks the palm of her hand to coerce it off of her.

"You should, though. It's fabulous."

"Welp! So much for not scaring Mikasa off!" she glares at the smirking woman. "Thanks, Hitch. Thanks a lot. I'm sure she's really comfortable now."

Hitch goes to open her mouth, but a frenzy of giggles cuts her short.

It's Mikasa.

She _laughs,_ clutching her stomach, nearly toppling over from the force.

Sasha and Hitch stare at her with confusion. But Mikasa just laughs. She can't control it. All this… it's all so silly. Her laughter fills the air, wrenches her gut, turns her cheeks even more ruddy. A flash of shame crosses her features, but it's lost. It's been ages since she's had a conversation this amusing with strangers. After tonight, though, Hitch and Sasha will become much more than that. She can feel it.

"What's so funny?" Sasha frowns, scratching an eyebrow. Hitch looks just as puzzled, her jaw going slack.

"I'm sorry," Mikasa hiccups, failing to control herself. "I just—_hic_—find this so—_hic_—very funny!"

"God," Hitch scoffs. And then, she starts laughing.

Sasha laughs too.

All three of them laugh together, their distinct giggles echoing through the apartment. If only for a moment, they are friends, not strangers. Friends.

By the time all three calm down, their drinks have gone cold. Sasha is pouring herself a second cup of coffee when Hitch asks, with a friendlier approach than what Mikasa's used to getting from her, "So whatcha wearing tonight, girl?"

She gazes down at her attire, cheeks still sore from laughing. "This."

"That? Oh no, you're not wearing that."

"I don't have any other clothes."

Hitch's expression is pensive. "What size are you?"

"Uh… small?"

"Stand up. Turn." Mikasa does as instructed. The two other women watch. "Mhm. Yep. You'll fit in my stuff."

"You sure, Hitch?" Sasha smiles, her eyes glued to Mikasa's rear. "She's got a bigger ass than you."

"Wha—?" Mikasa claps her hands over her butt, self-conscious.

"Hush." Hitch says. "That doesn't matter when you wear a dress."

"Okay, but her boobs. Also bigger."

"Don't matter."

"It'll fit too tight."

"Nonsense! It's New Year's Eve. The tighter the better."

Mikasa flits her gaze between the two of them. Sasha's eyes have gone to her feet. Hitch still stares at her figure, sizing it up.

"What about shoes?" asks Sasha.

"What shoe size are you?" Hitch asks Mikasa.

"Uh… six?"

"Ha! Perfect!

"Should we do it?"

"Hell yes."

"Do what?"

It's like something straight out of a movie. In perfect unison, and much to Mikasa's dread, the two girls chipper simultaneously.

"_We're gonna give you a makeover!"_

Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed. Anyone. Please have mercy on her soul.


	14. We Watched The Sun Set Slowly

**A/N: **I sobbed.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _We Watched the Sun Set Slowly From Our Lives_ :.

.: Chapter XIV :.

* * *

Death is silent.

Even planets die silently. There's no loud, deafening boom. Only darkness. Empty black. And the vortex that sucks in its surroundings to fill the hole that's left behind.

If not even planets pass away with noise, Eren's feeble mother was to go out the same way. One second, she was there. The next, she wasn't. And a hole no vortex could ever, ever fill became Eren's gaping heart.

The day he first kissed Mikasa Ackerman, he was ten years old. It was bad. Sloppy. Absolutely nothing like what he thought kissing the prettiest girl he knew would be like. But he was, despite all mortification, satisfied. His hands on her shoulders, the awkward smacking noise of their lips pulling apart, the loud pink screaming on her cheeks, all culminated into this great, childish moment, forever etched into the history of their lives. And for that, that day was a good day. But then his father knocked on the door, and asked to speak with him, and Eren left Mikasa behind and went away with Dad and then the Best Day Ever quickly became the Absolute Worst Day in the History of the Galactic Moons.

Then it was mature, adult hands that framed _his_ shoulders. It was the prickly, stubbly kiss from Daddy's lips on _his _forehead. It was "I love you, son," and "I'm sorry but," and "she won't make it," that became the three worst set of words that could ever be be uttered in the same breath.

"Why?" he'd asked his father.

"Why?" he'd asked the sky.

"Why?" he'd asked a god he wasn't sure he believed in.

"Why?" he'd asked the one who wouldn't make it, the one who wrapped her scarf around his neck, the one who seemed perfectly healthy―healthier than he'd seen her in a long, long time―and now laid in bed beside him with her cheeks hollow and her bright eyes dead.

_Why?_

"Because," said his mother, blinking slowly, her brown hair cascaded across the pillow they shared. "Some things in life we can't control, only endure, honey."

"No," Eren spat. Anger boiled in his cheeks, the pit of his stomach. Raw, hot, burning anger. "No, Mom."

He wanted to tell her that he'd just had his first kiss. He wanted to tell her that Mikasa's lips tasted like chocolate. He wanted to tell her how the butterflies in his tummy went all sorts of kookoo when he stared into her dark black eyes. He wanted to tell her, _I'm gonna marry that girl someday, Mom. You will be there, and I'm gonna marry her._

But the words that left his lips were: "I'm scared, Mommy. I don't know what I will do when you're gone."

"You're strong, Eren. You're so strong and brave. You make me so proud to be your mother." _Stop,_ screamed his heart. _Stop, Mommy, stop. Shut up. Don't talk like that, shut up!_ "I want you to always remember that you're my hero. You've brought me nothing but happiness. I love you. You're my ugly clam."

"You're my pearl, Mom."

"I know."

"I don't want you to go. I don't wanna live without you."

"I'll always be with you."

That was when his lips began to shake.

"No, you won't," they quivered. "It's not fair, Mommy. Why did God have to make you sick? Why couldn't God make you healthy?"

"Don't cry," she whispered, wiping at the dense, fat drops that spilled from his glassy eyes.

"Little boys aren't meant to be without their moms. It doesn't work that way. I don't want you to die. I can't live if you die. Please stay with me, Mommy. Please."

His eyes weren't the only ones oozing tears. In his life, Eren had only seen his mother cry twice. She _never_ cried. Not in sad movies, not when she was in pain, not when she was angry. The two times he'd witnessed her tears was when he fell from a tree and got sent to the emergency room, and once after a big fight with Dad. That's it. Mommy never cried. Ever.

But now, she was crying. She was staring deep into Eren's eyes, and even though his vision was blurry, he could see the way her features fought for control, how they cracked under the mighty weight of sadness.

"You're breaking my heart," she said, and Eren knew he'd gone too far. His father had warned him not to do this, not to cause any more emotional strain on his mom. But he couldn't help it. He was just a kid. He was just a kid and he needed her, he loved her, he needed her, oh god. He needed her the way that fishies in the ocean need water. How the hell was he supposed to live without a mom? You don't just throw a fish out of the ocean and tell it to breathe. It doesn't work like that. It doesn't work like that. It doesn't―

Unfortunately, Eren did not inherit his mother's fortitude of steel. He was a crier. A big, big crier. And he sobbed. He sobbed because he was hopeless, and felt a big knife pierce through parts of him that shouldn't be feeling any pain yet. His heart was too premature to be breaking the way it was. His life was too young to be falling apart already.

"Please," he begged, hiccuping. "I don't want you to go. I want to be with you forever. Don't go. Please. Don't go, Mommy." She couldn't take it anymore. Exhausted―so, so exhausted―she wrapped her arms around her son. So close, so close, that he could feel her breathing, her chest sway, and wondered why it couldn't always be that way. She was dying. She was dying. Soon, she would be gone.

How?

How?

How, how, how, _how _would he live without her?

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you, baby."

He inhaled her words, her soul, her heartbeat; kept it safe within him to carry forever and ever, for the rest of his life.

From an early age, Eren Jaeger knew that prayers weren't anything like phone calls. They don't get answered, you see. They're just wisps of hope the desperate soul sends out to the empty, soulless sky. But Eren prayed that night. He prayed, in his mother's arms. He prayed, in the tears that fell from his eyes and soiled her clothing. He prayed, in the slow droop of their eyelids as they fell asleep. He prayed, in his dreams. He prayed. He prayed. He prayed, and his guardian angel held him.

**—o—**

Death is silent.

What isn't, however, is the sadness it brings.

Mikasa's chest burned from how hard she was crying. Mama held her. She stroked her hair. She wiped her teary eyes and red cheeks and cleaned the sweat from her neck and forehead and held her so, so tight, held her to keep all her pieces intact but Mikasa, young, little Mikasa, she fell to shreds.

She was wailing, "My heart, Mama. My heart hurts."

"It's okay," her mother said. In her voice, she could hear Carla.

"It hurts," she whined again, breathless. Tears seared her eyes and dripped from her chin. "It hurts so much. I can't breathe, Mama. It's breaking."

"Shh, shh."

"It's broken."

"It's okay, baby. Mama's got you. I'm here."

Mikasa collapsed into her mother's arms. Mama held her tighter. Unlike her, she was a silent crier. So when Mama started crying too, not even God could hear her tears. And Papa watched from the door, with worry in his eyes, as his girls knelt and wept together.

Losing a human being is unlike anything a child could ever fathom. It's not like losing a toy, or a friend, or missing an episode of your favorite TV show. The tragedy that comes with true loss is a whole new kind of death in itself. It's like death for the living. Your heart still beats, and your lungs still breathe, and your brain still works, but there's something in your soul, something spiritual, that withers completely, a big chunk of you that the dead take with them. And it never comes back. Never.

"I didn't pray hard enough," Mikasa confessed to her parents, with snot running down her nose. "I prayed for Auntie. I prayed, but I didn't pray hard enough."

Maybe if she'd made her more flower crowns, or eaten more of her lunches, or played with Eren more and kissed him earlier Carla would still be alive. If only there was something she could have done, anything to keep fate from clasping its ugly claws around her and snatching her away, dropping her into the snarling, ugly maws of death. If only children's' innocence was enough to save people, to keep the terrible from happening. How much purer could anything get? A child is a clump from Heaven's clouds, tasseled and molded to garner all of the world's goodness. So why does God allow things like this to happen? Why does God allow children to suffer, goodness to suffer, for people to lose their innocence at such a fragile age? It was beyond Mikasa. Before this day, she had never known true pain. She had never known what it felt like to be betrayed by God, by the very clumps of skies that made her.

The world was too young to lose Carla Jaeger.

As Mama held her, Mikasa realized that Eren would never feel his own mother's embrace again. He would get married, and get a job, and kiss girls and paint masterpieces and learn new songs on his guitar and Carla would never be there to see it. He'd be a dad, and Carla would never be there to see it. He'd learn to drive, and Carla would never be there to see it. He'd build a spaceship for Armin, and take him to the outside world with an endless supply of chocolate for Mikasa (who would also tag along) and she would never be there to see them land on the moon, befriend aliens, prove to scientists that space rocks are made of cheese.

"She's dead, Mama." It was like saying that the sun was dead, that the planets fell out of orbit, that the earth forgot how to spin. And it felt that way too. It felt like an impossible lie. And that's the saddest part… for it was the inexorable, inexplicable, incomprehensible truth. Not even God could change it. Not even _God._

**—o—**

Eren wishes that sadness was quieter. He pretends that he doesn't hear his father weeping. If he were a better person, a better son, he would comfort him. But Dad's an adult, and adults have stronger hearts than children. He'll live. Unfortunately, they both will.

Mommy passed the same way all other things do. Death doesn't discriminate. It doesn't care that she was funny, or that her laugh was extra loud, or that she was witty and beautiful. It took her. It took her laugh and cut it short. It took her jokes, her smile, her dimples, her voice, her tattoos. It took her and Mikasa believes in God but Eren doesn't anymore because no good God would ever let this happen. Mommy was good. Mommy was gentle and kind and she loved so much and so deeply and she deserved to live but now she doesn't and Eren is so sad, so heartbroken. How will he ever breathe again? How will he smile? When his mother died, everything else died with her. There will still be soccer practices, there will still be snow, there will still be ice cream trucks rolling by and women getting pregnant and flowers blooming and people having sex, and the world ended, but somehow everything else kept happening around him, all else moved on.

When Mikasa kissed him for the second time, it was on the cheek. It was to curl her arms around him in a gossamer embrace. It was to breathe, "I'm sorry," with a little sheet of sheen veiling her eyes. It was to take him by the hand and say, "let's go, Eren," and save him from his home, where his father's snivels echoed, where his mother's laughter echoed, where her absence was so deafening it made even the walls cry.

"Wait," he whispered, marveling at the sound of his own voice. His body felt hollow, like an empty shell. How he was still moving, still thinking, still _talking_ was beyond him.

"What?"

"I need something first."

"Your toothbrush?"

"Well, yeah, that too. But no." What he needed was his mother's scarf. Dad was out talking with Mikasa's parents, so they traipsed over to the bathroom and snatched his toothbrush, traipsed over to his bedroom and snatched a clean change of clothes, traipsed over to what used to be his mother's room, and then he turned to Mikasa and said, "Do me a favor."

"What?"

"Can you go in and get Mommy's scarf for me? I don't wanna go in there."

Mikasa sucked in a sharp breath. "Yes." And she was off. Anything for Eren. Anything for her best friend.

The door creaked on its hinges, and as she entered the ghostly room, she tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like Carla. Everything looked like her too. Machines. A messy bed. Morphine lollipops. As Mikasa went over to retrieve her scarf from the mattress, she had to fight the urge to plop her face into the pillows and inhale the remnants of her scent. But then she thought of how she must've laid on that very spot dying, and she didn't want to remember her that way. Not her smell. Not like that. The smell of her sweaters, her hair, her food, that's what Mikasa wanted to keep with her. So, quickly, her little fingers snatched the scarf, but when she whirled around to sprint out of the room, a soft thud made her feet stall.

A letter.

She peered at it for a beat, blinking. Then she bent down, took it, turned it to read the lettering written on the front. It was Auntie's handwriting. A relic, an artifact, a sliver her tremendous heart had left behind.

_For My Ugly Clam_

A gasp slid between her lips. It was for Eren.

"Mikasa?" she heard him call from outside. "What's taking you so long?"

"Just a second!" In a panicked whirl, she shoved the letter down her shirt. She was ten, so her chest was still flat and boobie-less, but her training bra was snug enough to hold the letter in place. She came out, fidgeting slightly. The paper prickled her skin, tickled her sternum.

"I'm ready."

Eren's eyes were red. They stared at the scarf in her hands. His fingers moved to grab it, but then gave up.

"Let's go," he said, his voice quiet. "I need get out of here before I suffurocate."

_Suffocate, _Mikasa thought, too tired to correct him. In this house, she decided, she was suffurocating too.

**—o—**

"He's a boy, Charles."

"He can't stay in that house. Plus, Grisha needs to get out too! We need to take care of him, Shiori. It's the least we can do."

"I don't know."

"My love, my wife, listen to me; Eren needs us. He helped our daughter. We need to repay all his family has done for Miki somehow."

Mama sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. What was it about that boy, that Eren, that made her violate all of her own stern rules? _No boys allowed in the house _quickly went flying out the window, for her daughter and him were upstairs, taking turns to use her little bathroom to prepare themselves for bed.

"How long will he be staying here?" she asked him.

"For as long as he needs."

"When is the funeral?"

"In two days."

"And then where will he go?"

"Back home to his father."

"Alright. He stays here. For as long as he needs to."

"Thank you."

When Mikasa walked in, she found Papa with Mama's face in his hands, his lips on her forehead, her palms on his chest. Parental PDA was gross, but with her heart at such a fragile state, every tiny glimpse of love was a miracle to Mikasa. It was awe inspiring: how the world was so cruel, and still some things could remain beautiful.

"We're ready," she announced, frightening Mama, who jumped away from her husband and gasped when she saw Eren appear as well.

"Eren," Mama said, pushing a tendril of hair behind her ear. "Ready for bed, love?"

All eyes went to him.

His, however, clung to the floor.

"Eren."

Nothing.

"Eren?"

"Mm?" His voice was carried by sloths. "Did you say something?" Slowly, slowly, it fell out of him.

"I said, are you ready for bed?"

"Yes." By the looks of him, he was already sleeping.

It was hard for Mikasa to understand. With how wild Eren was by nature, she thought his sadness would be the loud type, the type that shatters mirrors and punches walls and hurls items across rooms. But he wasn't a loud mourner. He was the silent type, the type that turns off, ratchets down the volume, fuses with the silence of the wind, as if he were winter itself.

"Mrs. Ackerman," he breathed, rubbing his sleepless eyes. "Can I have something to drink?"

"Of course. Is chocolate milk alright?"

"Yes."

Mikasa knew that Eren hated chocolate. She crinkled her nose, and decided to test her luck. "Can I have some too?"

"No. No chocolate before bedtime. You know the rules."

"Poopie."

"Strawberry milk, Miki. Yes or yes?"

"Yes!"

Mama violated another one of her stern rules. She gave the kids permission to take their drinks upstairs, something she vehemently refused to allow in the past. But Carla wasn't dead back then, and Eren wasn't here, and he wasn't pretending to like chocolate milk for the sake of not requesting another drink and being bothersome.

It was as if he didn't want to be felt. His presence, an omnipresent force that once palpitated so brilliantly it left all onlookers blind, was now invisible. His footsteps weren't mighty stomps anymore, but quiet taps that barely rose above silence. He might as well have been floating, ambling along like a ghost.

Loss has a tendency to quiet the soul, to mar the unmarrable.

In Mikasa's mind, the definition of life itself was Eren Jaeger. Every emotion that had ever been felt, every storm the skies had weathered, every flower that ever wilted or bloomed was present in his spirit, carried by his smile and his bright blueish green eyes. And once upon a time, he'd told her that he wished he knew how to stop feeling. And now it seems that he finally accomplished his goal.

Sleep was pulling on her eyelids when she heard her bedroom door open. She didn't need to peer to know who it was. The ghost strolled into her room, slithered into her bed, pulled her pink covers over its shoulders―but only after asking for permission first, which she quickly granted.

Her eyes stared into his. The moonlight crept in through her window, bathing one side of his face, occulting the other. The crescent reflections in his eyes professed a liveliness he no longer held within him.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, clutching Ningyo to her chest. "Can't sleep?"

"No," Eren answered. "I have trouble falling asleep. And I forgot to bring my meds with me."

"Your meds?"

"Mhm."

Mikasa frowned. "Have some of my strawberry milk. That always makes me sleepy."

"Okay."

He moved, one nuance at a time, and reached for the glass on her nightstand. Most of it was gulped down in one go.

"You'll choke," Mikasa told him.

"Shh."

So she shut up.

When he laid back down, Mikasa's eyes were playing tug-of-war with sleep. _Stay awake,_ she tugged. _No,_ tugged her eyelids. _No, no, no!_

"You suck your thumb?" Eren asked her, furrowing a brow.

"Sometimes," she mumbled, smirking sleepily around her finger. "Mama hates it."

"You're such a baby."

She kicked his leg under the covers.

"A strong one," he grimaced. "Ouch."

When she snorted through a smile, with her little thumb still in her mouth, Eren marveled at the crinkles of her eyes. She was beautiful, more beautiful than anything that could ever be explained. Mom was beautiful. Sunsets were beautiful. Stars were beautiful. Mikasa, you see, was a whole new brand of beauty in itself.

"I miss her," Eren murmured, curling his fingers around the scarf on his neck. "I miss her so much, Mikasa."

"I do too," the girl breathed, blinking slowly. "I miss her so much that I can't function. Sometimes, I feel like smiling or laughing, but then I stop. Or as soon as I do, I think of how she's no longer here, and then smiling and laughing just isn't worth it anymore."

"Right? I feel the same way."

"I miss her spaghetti dinners."

"I miss her laugh."

"I miss her eyes."

"I miss her hair."

"I miss her feet."

"I miss her voice."

"I miss her jokes."

"I miss her," sighed Eren. "I can't believe she's gone. She's really gone, Mikasa."

There was silence.

Nobody knew what to say. Not Eren. Not Mikasa. Not Ningyo. Not the strawberry milk in their bellies or the moon in the sky. But it witnessed the way its silvery glow shifted on the boy's features when the girl brought a hand up to his face. Her palm on his cheek was soft, small. Fragile.

"I'll protect you," she told him. "I promise. I will protect you, Eren."

"How?" he asked her helplessly. How? How? How could anyone protect him, save him from himself?

"Once upon a time," she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair. Eren closed his eyes again, lost in her voice, lost in her touch. "There was an ugly clam. It was so ugly that all the other clams hated it, but one day a bunch of divers came to eat them all and inside that ugly clam they found the most beautiful pearl in all of existence."

"That's not how the story goes," Eren snorted. "You gotta tell it like Mom did."

"Nobody can tell it the way Auntie did."

"True."

"But you know what, Eren?"

"What?"

"You are my pearl."

This shocked him. He gawked at her, stunned.

"Really?" he gasped, aghast at the realization that he could be anyone's pearl, be more than the simple ugly clam. "Do you mean that?"

"Mhm," the girl nodded, still sucking on her thumb. "You are my pearl and clam and everything. But Carla is the queen clam."

"She was the queen clam," he whispered, the phantom of a smile on his lips. "She was the queen of everything."

"Indeed."

Slowly, the young girl fell asleep. But before her eyes closed, before the moon shifted its position in the sky, before the sound of her squeaky little voice escaped him, she said, "Goodnight, Eren," and he could smell the strawberry milk in her breath.

"Goodnight," he told her, wondering what her lips might taste like now that Mom was dead. He had a feeling that they―and everything else he'd ever taste again―would be different.

But he never kissed her lips that night. Not even when her sleepy breaths billowed beside him. Not even when her thumb fell out of her mouth. Instead, he kissed her small hand, her forehead, the teeny tiny tip of her nose. It was when his lips pressed to her eyelid, when he felt her lashes tickling his skin, that he realized that God wasn't necessarily an abyssal entity. Sometimes, God was just love. God was just a girl, snoring softly in her sleep, with her thumb coated in saliva and a dark thread of hair fallen across her cheek.

**—o—**

"Stars are big balls of gas that radiate light," said Armin, fixing the tie around his neck. "Not souls, Mikasa."

"I beg to differ," she murmured, crossing her arms over her chest. "There is no scientific proof that specifies that stars are big balls of gas."

"Um, there is."

"Where?"

"NASA?"

"To poop with NASA."

"Gosh," groaned Armin. "You sound like every other religious person out there."

"I'm sure that was meant to be offensive," said the girl, "but frankly, I have a funeral to attend."

"As do I."

"Then you agree with me. Carla is a star now. A big, fat, gassy star."

Despite himself, Armin smiled.

"Okay, Mikasa." He hid Carla's letter in his jacket, scoffing through a smirk. "But what star is she now, hm?"

This made her think.

"The sun," she decided. "She's the sun now."

**—o—**

Papa always said that funerals are for the living, not for the dead. What, exactly, do they accomplish? They are gatherings of breathing lungs and beating hearts and thinking brains. They are sadness parties that do nothing for the corpse within the casket, the angelic face that's made of stone. They don't help the dead go to Heaven, or rest in peace, or their journey to the stars any easier. Funerals are made to help the living live on by letting go. By throwing dirt on all the memories that was once a human life, a clump of sky that God let them all borrow and decided to take back.

Eren did not cry.

Mikasa and Armin watched him. He did not cry as his father wept beside him. He did not cry during his eulogy. He did not cry as Auntie's casket was lowered into the earth. He did not cry when a sea of flowers flooded her tomb, made it come alive somehow. So many colors. So many flowers. They were even brighter in the snow.

Eren Jaeger did not cry. Not once. Not once. He showed no signs of sadness, no feelings at all.

"We have something for you," Armin told him, not bothering with fancy hugs or gloomy I'm sorry's. He knew his friend well enough to understand exactly what he needed at that moment. To Eren, the world must've felt too loud. All day, he was pulled into awkward embraces, listened to how sorry everyone was, how amazing Carla was, how great everything was but isn't anymore. So Armin and Mikasa pulled him aside while their parents were conversing, and gave him a pocket of peace.

"This is for you," he offered him Carla's letter, the one Mikasa had found in her room. "We won't tell you how we found it, but we think it's good that you read it, Eren."

His green eyes studied his mother's handwriting.

"No." he murmured. "I don't want to. I'm so tired."

"We'll be right here with you, Eren," piped Mikasa. "Come with us. Let's go to your mother's grave. We can read it there in silence."

"Please," begged Armin. "We're here for you, Eren. Please, read your mother's letter. Please."

Eren scowled at the letter.

"Fine."

Then they walked.

A thin sheet of snow covered the grass. It cracked and mushed beneath their shoes, chilled their legs when they knelt before the sea of flowers. Eren's hands were pink from being exposed to the cold. He did not care. He tore the letter open with his fingers, sighed, and began to read.

Eren hated reading.

He hated reading _so _much.

His friends waited patiently for him to finish. It didn't take him even five minutes. He did not cry. He did not cry. Even when he was finished, he did not cry.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye," he said quietly, holding the letter in his hand. "She was gone before I knew it. Just… gone."

"Then tell her everything now," was Mikasa's proposal. "Tell her everything you wanted to say. Now's your chance, Eren."

"She can't hear me," he snapped at her, annoyed. "How am I supposed to speak to the dead, huh? She's dead. Stone cold fucking _dead._"

"Eren," begged Armin. "Please."

He sighed. It was heavy and exasperated and so thick that it clouded the air.

"Fine. I'll talk to this stupid tombstone."

They waited. The flowers waited. The tombstone waited. They waited.

"Mom," Eren began, his voice suddenly much softer. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for yelling at you sometimes, and for being a pain in the butt about taking showers and helping with laundry and washing dishes even when I knew that your hands hurt too much. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry that I cuss sometimes, that I get into so many fights and worry you. I'm sorry that I didn't pick up my toys when you told me to, or practiced the guitar as much as I should have. You…" He stopped.

"Keep going," Armin prompted. "Go on."

"You…"

"That's it."

"You can do it, Eren."

Finally, finally, finally, he began to cry.

"You loved me so much," Eren whispered, tears welling in his eyes. "You loved me more than anything, and I was so unfair to you sometimes. I should've told you that I loved you more. I should've told you how happy you made me. I should've…" His hands balled. Veins flexed on his fists. "I should've done more to make you happy, Ma. You taught me everything. You gave me everything. Even when you were sick, Mom, you gave me your all. You wouldn't eat so that I would have food. You wouldn't sleep so that I would have someone to talk to. You wouldn't lay down on your bed until you were sure I was done playing hide and seek, or any other silly game I made you play with me.

"I love you. I love you so much, Mommy. I will love you all my life. I miss you. I miss you like crazy. I miss you with every breath I take, with every bite of food, with every leaf on every tree in the entire planet.

"I should've told you how thankful I am for everything you did for me while you were alive. I'll never feel your heartbeat again. I'll never hear you breathe. I'll never see you angry at me or Dad again and that, Mommy… that's so painful. It hurts so much.

"Before you died, I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving me, for being my mom, for accepting me when no one else did. Thank you for living the time that you did. I will never forget you. I will never forget you, Mom. I promise I'll be good to Daddy. I'll take care of him, and Armin and Mikasa too. I'll be a good boy, I promise, I swear. I'll behave, I'll make you proud. I'll make you so, so proud, Mommy.

"I hope you find the fluffiest cloud in the sky, and anytime I hear anybody laugh or see any joy at all, I will see you. Goodbye, Mommy. I love you. Goodbye."

His head fell. He sobbed. His shoulders shook as affluent tears dripped off his chin and landed on his jacket. For the first time in her life, Mikasa saw Eren cry.

"You did it," she whispered, peering at him through her own tears.

Armin was smiling. He was crying too.

"I'm sorry," Eren whimpered, "I'm so sorry, guys." He nearly stumbled when Mikasa threw her arms around him. Seconds later, Armin had his arms around him too.

They cried. The sun began to set, dwindling rays caressing the snow, the sky, their weeping figures. All three of them held each other, and as Mikasa hugged her favorite boy in the world―the one who came marching into her life with a dirty soccer ball and big, flashy grins―she realized that sometimes princes need saving too. So she held him. Together, Armin and Mikasa, they held him: two walls, one roof. A family. A sanctuary.

A home.

**—o—**

_For My Ugly Clam_

_My dear, sweet Eren. _

_How mad at me I know you must be. You might feel that I betrayed you, left you behind all alone in the world. But if there is anyone I know that is strong enough to survive through this, it's you. _

_My boy, you've made me proud beyond what you can imagine. A million perfect pearls don't compare to the worth you have for me. Please forgive me. I wish that God had given me more time. I am envious of all who will get to see you grow. I can already imagine it, your dimple and your freckles contrasting your manly voice, how much taller than me you'd grow up to be; and yet all I can picture in my mind is my little Eren, the one that stared at me when I first held him, the curious little toddler that would laugh whenever he fell. God, you cried so much. Your father and I didn't get a good night's sleep until you were four. That's when everything changed, though, wasn't it? That's when Mommy got sick, and you started worrying. You would bring me flowers that you'd pick from our garden to see me smile, you'd scold Daddy for not making me tea, for not cuddling with me to keep me warm when I was shivering. So you would do it yourself. You'd microwave water and plop a little tea bag inside and potter over to my bedroom. I have to tell you something, honey, you were never very good at making tea. But I would drink it all. How could I not, when your big eyes were watching me? When your little dimple would pop out when you grinned? When you'd insist to be the big spoon, even though you were much smaller than me? You kept me warm, though. Whenever I was cold, you kept me warm._

_It's when I think of all these things that I feel a pain greater than any illness well up in my core. But things are always as they should be. Always. In that, I have faith._

_I will try to make this brief now, as I can hardly control my hands. You know how much Mommy hates that, when her hands start to cramp. So if I could take my beautiful, ample life and cram it all into one tiny, breathing accomplishment to summarize everything that I am, have been, and ever will be, it's you. _

_I love you, son. I love, I love, I love, and that is enough. You alone have been worth living for. Every time you see a star in the sky, or feel the wind on your skin, or the sun on your face, I want you to remember: I will always be with you._

_I adore you. Beyond anything words could ever dream to express, I adore you._

_-Mom_


	15. The Pleasure's All Mine (Part I)

**A/N:** Because so much is going to happen in this chapter (cough cough Eren and Jean meet) I decided to split it into two parts. Also, I made playlists for Eren and Mikasa for this story. There's not much else to say. I'm tired, but lately I have been receiving some very kind reviews, and this prompted me to squeeze this chapter out. Now, Enjoy :)

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _The Pleasure's All Mine_ :.

.: Chapter XV, Part 1 :.

* * *

Mikasa pores over her own reflection in the mirror, cringing at what she sees. Months of wearing Prada heels and bodycon Gucci dresses should've prepared her for this—but, quite frankly, _nothing _could've prepared her for the skimpy ordeal that is Hitch's wardrobe. "Guys," she heaves, sucking in her tummy. "I don't know. I look… weird."

"Oh, come on!" screams Sasha. "Let us see you!" The bedsprings cringe beneath her bouncing body, mattress groaning with her squeals. "Come on, come on!"

"It's… It's too tight."

"I'm sure you look great!"

"No."

"Mikasa, come out of that bathroom before I go in there and take you out myself."

"Hitch, chillax."

With what sounds like a roar/bleet of frustration, Hitch does quite the opposite of "chillaxing". She yells, "Come out!"

Mikasa sighs. "Okay, I'll come out—but please don't laugh."

"We won't!"

"Come out, woman."

"Okay, I'm coming. Don't laugh."

"Hurry up!"

The bathroom door _screams _on its hinges, announcing the presence of a very shy, very insecure young woman. She waddles over to them, stands.

They gasp.

"Holy mother of fuck."

"You look…" Sasha snorts into her fist, smiling. "You look… Wow. You look—"

"Like you got two asses," Hitch deadpans. Eyeing the way her tongue rolls inside her cheek, how her sharp eyes take in every curve and ridge and shape of her body, Mikasa's face darkens.

"No!" Sasha blurts out with a start, reaching to stop her from waddling back into the bathroom to change out of the clothes. "Wait, hold up. It looks good, really. Like, _wow_. Amazing."

A sigh. It's troubled and peeved. Mikasa's hands fall to her stomach, where she can hardly feel the sways of her own breaths. "But I… I feel strange."

All eyes fall to the blonde one of the three. She's scrunching her eyes, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

"Hitch?"

"Something's missing."

"What is?"

"Hmmm…" Prowling closer to Mikasa, she fixes her gaze on her chest. The frown grows deeper, and what _was _going to be a question becomes a startled yelp as her hands dig right into the bust of the dress to pull—yes, _pull_—Mikasa's breasts up to accentuate what _already_ was too much cleavage hanging out.

Violated, horrified, aghast, the raven gapes. "You just—"

"There," grins the titty-groper. "Now, that's perfect."

Sasha scoffs, still smiling. "Damn, girl. You look hot."

"I can't breathe."

"That's how you know you look good."

"But my breasts—"

"Look great!"

"But—"

"And your legs too!"

"I'm—"

"Do you have abs?" Hitch asks, startling her,

"I… what?"

"Abs. Are you shredded?"

"Um… not really?"

"Well, I can see your stomach through the fabric and damn girl, nice four-pack."

"Thanks." It _used_ to be a six-pack. Sigh.

The girls are going on about who's the most shredded person they know. Sasha insists that Ymir is the one with abs of steel, but as soon as Eren's "ripped, chiseled eight-pack that could cut your tongue" is mentioned, Mikasa clears her throat.

"Guys… I don't know about this."

Sasha's eyes are softer when they land on her, and seem genuinely concerned. "You don't like it?"

"I feel…" Oh, what's the word? Ridiculous? Provocative? Uncouth? "Naked."

Hitch is the one to scoff this time. "What's wrong with feeling naked?"

Well, in fact, many things, Hitch Dreyse. For one, her ex is right next door getting ready to go out to a party she probably shouldn't even be attending and guess what he's wearing? Jeans! Not tight-ass dresses that makes his ass look like it popped out a clone, thank you very much.

"Mikasa," Sasha smiles sweetly, "just give it a chance. You've never worn anything like this, yeah? Let this be a first. Have fun. Feel sexy. This is your night too!"

Sexy? _Sexy?_ God. Mikasa isn't sure she's ever felt sexy a day in her life.

"If you're really that uncomfortable," croons Hitch, "you can change. We won't force you to wear anything you don't want to, but I'm not lying, you look good. I'd bang you."

"It's true. And Hitch isn't someone who gives out compliments so easily."

That was a compliment?

"Thanks. I… I'll keep it."

"Great!"

"But don't you have a cardigan I could wear? At least to cover up slightly?"

Hitch's smirk twists up into a full-fledged smile. Mikasa is left gawking, and she nearly cannot fathom that this woman—who is helping her and being friendly to her now—is the same one she found half-naked at Eren's door all those weeks ago.

"Sure, hun. I'll find you one."

"Yay!" Sasha chippers, clapping her hands quickly. "I'm so excited! You're gonna break necks tonight, girl."

"And hearts," adds Hitch, prowling away into her walk-in closet with a wink.

Mikasa sighs, gazing down at the open-toe heels she's stuffed her feet into. "Or an ankle."

**—o—**

"So this Mikasa chick. Is she your sister?"

"She's not my sister."

"I thought she was adopted."

"She's not."

"I thought you said you lived together."

"That doesn't mean she's adopted."

"Were _you _adopted?"

"_No."_

"So you have no siblings."

"You already know all this, man."

"So this means you're sleeping with her."

"I'm not sleeping with her."

"Why not? She's not your sister."

"Is that the only reason I'd have not to sleep with her?"

"I mean, yeah."

"Um. She's engaged."

"And?"

"Are you stupid?"

"I don't understand."

"She's with someone else."

"And…?"

"And…!"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"God, you're an idiot."

"I don't get it! If she's as hot as the guys say, why aren't you boning her?"

"I don't have to _bone_ every single thing that breathes and talks, Con."

"Are you saying that I do?"

"I didn't say that."

"So why aren't you sleeping with her, then?"

"Connie. I'm gonna beat the shit out of you."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh, okay! I see, I see. It all makes sense now!"

"Connie."

"So that means she's your sis— Ahh! Not my face, man!"

**—o—**

"Where's Eren?"

"He's getting ready with the guys."

"Are they all at his place?"

"Dunno. Reiner's there, I think."

"And Connie."

"Shut up."

**—o—**

"I haven't said anything."

"Shut up."

"I can't believe you hit him so hard he passed out."

"He accused me of fucking my sister."

"You have a sister?"

"No!"

"Well, you've fucked worst things. Like, say, there's a fruit…"

"Reiner."

"A succulent, juicy fruit…"

"Please."

"Called papay— Ow!"

**—o—**

"You have the eyes of a goddess."

"The body of a goddess too."

"Actually, you're a goddess. Done. She's a goddess!"

"You guys…"

"Chin up. Goddesses don't blush."

"I think she looks cute when she blushes."

"Thanks for the input, Sasha."

"It's true!"

"Are you done yet?"

"Shh. Don't move. Liquid eyeliner is the bane of my fucking existence. Don't even breathe. If you fuck this up, I'm gonna have to start all over again."

"Hitch."

"What?"

"Hitch."

"What, Mikasa?"

"I have to sneeze."

"Don't you dare."

"I can't hold—"

"Mikasa!"

"_Ahh-choooooo!_"

**—o—**

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That noise. Sounded like a sneeze."

"No. You're just crazy."

"Bro, I swear I heard a girl sneeze."

"Who cares? It's probably just Hitch or something."

"No. I know Hitch sneezes. That wasn't a Hitch sneeze."

"Connie."

"What?"

"Let it go."

"..."

"..."

"An unrequited noise arises in the solemn silence of the night—"

"Ughhhhhhhhhhh."

"—_avast!_ Germs! From the nose! Of a female!"

"Eren, just punch him again."

"Can I?"

"Please!"

"Wait! What if it was Misheesha sneezing?"

"Her name's Mikasa."

"Milka… uh..."

"There's no way. Her sneezes are soft."

"And you know this because…?"

"?"

"Because she's your sister!"

"Give me the beer."

"No."

"Give it to me, Connie!"

"NO! IT'S MINE!"

Eren jumps over the couch. Connie runs, shrieking.

**—o—**

"I hate you."

"Why?"

"Your ass. I just— I hate you."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Hitch's just jealous. She wishes hers looked like that."

"I hate you."

Mikasa smirks. "I hate you too."

**—o—**

"Bro, you have such nice hair."

"Don't touch me."

"Can I braid it?"

"Don't fucking touch me."

"Eren, I'm gonna kiss it."

"Connie—"

"Muah!"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Dude… That was so gay."

"Damn."

**—o—**

"Boom! Bam! Viola! She's ready!"

"And now I'm deaf."

"Sorry. I got excited."

"Now that Mikasa's all done, it's our turn to get ready."

"WHOO!"

"Jesus, Sash."

"Sorry, I'm just so friggin' PUMPED! Let's DO THIS!"

"Well, you sure will be pumped—"

"—YEAH!—"

"—now that Connie's here."

"Huh?"

"Did you see that, Mikasa? How quickly she turned to look? And she _swears _she doesn't like him."

"I don't!"

"Yeah, and I'm a virgin."

"I hate you."

"Whatever loser. I'm letting you borrow my heels, by the way."

"The shiny ones?"

"Yep."

"WHOO! I LOVE YOU!"

"I mean, my New Year's resolution was _so_ to have severe hearing loss, Sash. It's fine, it's cool. Not like I need it anyway."

**—o—**

Two hours.

Two torturous, laborious hours later and finally, _finally_, the girls were done.

Hitch makes walking in tall heels and tight dresses look like an art—which she's mastered expertly, to the point where nobody would be surprised if she could sprint for miles or even kill a man without breaking a sweat. It'd taken her ages to do Mikasa's makeup, but in two minutes tops, she'd painted on the fiercest winged eyeliner and the mosts impressive display of flawless contouring Mikasa had ever seen.

Sasha, on the other hand, doesn't do more than apply a single coat of mascara to her eyelashes. A true, effortless beauty, she's surprisingly nimble in her own pair of borrowed heels and skimpy attire. And after Hitch and her take a couple of "selfies" (to which Mikasa vehemently refuses to be a part of), the front door to her apartment explodes open with a loud, boisterous blast.

"I'M HERE MOTHERFUCKERS!"

It's Ymir.

"Shh!" hisses Historia, yanking on her girlfriend's coat. "Ymir, please."

"Sorry, baby."

"Ymir!" Hitch sprints over to the tall brunette (told you she could do it) and fucking _wraps_ herself around her, jumping into her arms and coiling her legs over her waist. With a labored groan, Ymir catches her.

"Hey, there, sweet cheeks," she chuckles at the squealing Hitch, whose grip on her neck is throttling. "Missed me much?"

"Like hell, bitch."

"I missed you too, hoe. Now hop off me."

Sasha's next. She wraps her arms tightly around the freckled queen, but saves her from another death-grip, at least. Historia is sweet and meek as always, kissing everyone's cheeks—even Mikasa's—and saying hello.

"The boys are downstairs waiting," she says. At the thought of facing Eren, Mikasa's stomach does several flippity-flops. Seven of them. Seven flips. She counts them, for counting reduces anxiety,no? Her excitement and simultaneous dread mix into some odd, overwhelming concoction that makes her queasy yet content. Is it possible to feel two extremes at once? Is it normal to feel fierce yet frightened? Brave but scared? Courageous and sheepish? What _is_ all of this? What is this shining, colorful whirlwind of activity resonating within her?

Life.

She is alive.

_You are living._

Suddenly, Mikasa feels herself land. Funny, since she hadn't realized she'd been floating all this time, living within an illusion.

Her lungs swell, release, and as she stands wearing another woman's clothing, she feels so attuned with herself, as if the plug that attaches her body to her soul finally connected. For months, she has worn clothing that were hers, but belonged someone else, lead a life that was hers yet made for another. _Not me, _her heart kept telling her, dissociating from all outer senses, removing her from the rest of the world. Not me. Not me. _This is not me._

And now, in Hitch's dress and heels and makeup, Mikasa feels… alive. Strong. She breathes in the smell of the girls' perfumes, sees the twinkling smiles on their faces, feels the fibers of her coat as she slips it onto her shoulders, tastes her heartbeat at the back of her throat and hears the thump, thump, thumping of heels on tiled floors until they're all outside and about to make their way down the stairs to where the boys—to where _Eren_ is waiting and she feels, she breathes, she thinks, she _is_ like herself again.

They walk.

Onward into the crisp night.

The air is promising.

**—o—**

_Thump… _

_Thump… _

_Thump… _

"Ugh, Eren, would you stop that?"

The tennis ball freezes in his hand. "Stop what?"

"That—" Bertholdt's arms flail with empty gestures. "Noise."

"Oh." Eren smirks, rolling the ball between his fingers. "You mean this?"

_Thu-thump!_

"Yeah."

_Thu-thump!_

"Stop it."

_Thu-tump!_

"Great. He's double bouncing it now."

Connie groans over the incessant hammering. "Jesus! What's taking them so long?"

"Patience," mutters Reiner, throwing the ball back at Eren when it accidentally hits him on the arm.

He catches it, throws it again.

It hits Reiner's chest this time.

"You fucking—"

The ball goes flying toward a giggling Eren. He curls sideways to avoid the blow but it still hits him right on the leg—that doesn't stop him, though; his boredom is too great.

He hurls the ball and it hits the floor, a wall, then bounces right back at him. He captures it, throws again, never misses. The repetitive thuds are beginning to sound very much like a heartbeat, when suddenly a sharper, hollower thump makes his head turn and steals his full attention.

Mikasa.

She stands, like a god, at the top of the stairs.

"Holy…"

"Fucking…"

"_Shit."_

Time freezes on its tracks, hangs for a breathless beat as her eyes move, slowly, to latch onto his. And when they do, they linger, as does the pause in his pulse, the rigid posture they all acquire. Her hair dangles in gentle curls, and he's never seen it this long, this marceled, this exquisitely arranged around her face, voluminous tresses of silk the angels garnered from the night sky. Her eyes are captivating even from afar, pink lips plump with a sheen that makes them seem as if kissed by starlight. Red is the dress she wears, and her coat shields the rest of her figure from his scouring eyes but he has seen her in dresses before and in high heels but never like this, never how she is at this moment. She looks brand new, made of ash and porcelain and roses. She parts her lips to speak, a tendril of hair curling by her chin, white glimpses of teeth calling out to him when—

"Ow! _Fuck!_"

"Eren!"

"Holy shit, are you—?"

"Whoa!"

"Mufasa!"

"Catch her!"

"She's okay, she's alive!"

"Mikasa, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she pants, struggling back to her feet, her arms curled around the railing. "I slipped. Missed a step, that's all."

"You nearly ate shit!" screams Ymir. Historia slaps her lightly on the arm.

"It's these heels," she tells them quietly, embarrassed at the scene. Eren's groaning with one side of his face in his hands, Reiner clutching his gut nearby and nearly keeling over with laughter.

"He got ball-smacked on the face!" he sputters, beet-red.

"Are you okay, man?"

Groans. Reiner laughs harder.

"Jesus. You two are a wreck," says Sasha.

Mikasa clears her throat as if nothing ever happened.

Her eyes fly to Eren. He's glaring at Reiner now.

Something within her somersaults.

All of her somersaults, actually.

She falls again.

**—o—**

"Remind me never to wear heels. Ever."

"I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to laugh."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I really do."

"Listen, at least you didn't get smacked on the face with a ball, like somebody you know."

"This is true. How's your eye?"

"Fine. How's your ankle?"

"Fine."

"God… We _are _a wreck."

**—o—**

He doesn't tell her that while she was falling, he caught a glimpse up her dress.

Lace panties, eh?

**—o—**

It's chilly, but lately, Mikasa scarcely feels the cold. In her provocative attire—assuaged only by the conservativeness of her coat—she should be a popsicle. But she's not. Because Eren is with her. And when he's with her, the air doesn't feel the way it usually does, the weather doesn't register the way that it should to her senses. Everything is upside-down, backwards, silly. _Right._

They do not speak—not until way past nine o'clock. When they do, it's after pottering noisily to Sasha's cafe by foot (the same french cafe Eren had taken her to the night they ran into each other). Mikasa had no idea Sasha was french—_I'm not! I just like the language and their pastries!_—but alas, the menu with foreign, cryptic lettering does not matter, for alcohol is the grand special tonight. All sorts of mixed drinks line the countertops once Ymir and Hitch get their hands on a few bottles of questionable liquids, and the guys pull a couple of tables together to play a mean game of pong, which Mikasa quickly discovers not to be good ol' regular ping pong, but a game where one throws small plastic balls into Solo cups in pursuit of intoxicating the opposing team. A silly game, she reckons, but Eren is excited as he ever is, grinning from ear to ear with a bruise on his eye that Connie keeps trying to poke at, that Hitch keeps trying to treat, that he keeps vehemently dismissing as nothing to be concerned about.

They do not speak—not until Mikasa sits by the makeshift bar the girls have arranged, and takes a sip of her sparkling water with a sigh. Eren's voice appears, suddenly, out of nowhere.

"Hey, stranger." Conjured from thin air, his smirk glints with a tinge of relativity. "Having fun?"

"Of course," Mikasa smiles, because with Eren, she can't _not_. "This sparkling water is supreme."

"Ah," he leans back on the counter, propping his weight back on his forearms. His shirt tightens against his chest, outlining the ridges of bone, the subtle swells of muscle. Knowing that she should look away, she doesn't. "I was wondering what you had sneaked up in there."

Now, she does.

"H2O. Carbonated. Highly intoxicating."

"Oh-ho. Watch out, everyone, we have a badass in our midst."

She feels herself blush. It starts at the base of her neck, crawls up her throat, engulfs her cheeks and lips and addles her ever-so-calculated thought process. All she can think is _pecks, pecks, pecks, pecks_ and wow, yeah, she can definitely feel herself losing a tinge of control, so she does what any normal person would do in her situation. She punches him.

"Ow," Eren whines, frowning. "Totally unnecessary."

"Very necessary."

"If it wasn't because I know that's how you show affection, I'd punch you back."

"You can't hit a girl."

"You're not a girl, you're a tank."

"Am not!"

He pulls his sleeve up, revealing a red patch on his bicep, the burgeoning bruise right on the spot where she'd delivered the blow.

"Oh," she gasps, "I'm sorry," clutching his bicep with both hands. Her hands are warm on his skin, make his entire body buzz. "I'm sorry, I won't hit you again, I promise."

Eren goes to speak, when they both notice her hands linger.

He grins, the fucking bloke, flashing that stupid friggin' dimple.

"Shit," Mikasa murmurs, thoroughly aware that she violated their bubble rule (but there's so many rules… Can't there be no rules at all just for tonight?). She curls her hands into fists, tearing them away from him. It'd felt so natural to hold him. Letting go, not so much. "I'm sorry. It was… instinct."

"That's alright." Still grinning. "I'm not complaining."

Blushing again. "Oh, hush."

"Ah, I know," Eren groans dramatically, stretching his arms so that they flex. "It's my muscles, isn't it? They're hard to resist."

"Eren, I am mentally punching you right now."

"But you can't. It's your new year's resolution not to be an abuser."

"I'm not an abuser."

"You just sexually molested me."

"How?"

"My arm. It has been held in ways that I can't— Ow!"

"To poop with my resolution. You deserved that."

"Fair enough."

They laugh. Together.

A fleeting realization introduces itself. Funny, Mikasa ponders. Very, very funny how humans are capable of surpassing tragedy the way that they are. How many times hasn't she felt like the absolute end of the world had occurred and the sky came crashing down upon them, and now, years later, here they are. Laughing. _Laughing._ When they swore they would never learn to do so much as breathe again.

Her cheeks feel hot.

Time was made to heal all wounds.

Mikasa parts her lips, and Eren's eyes flick down to watch them, watch her, draw out the words she's about to say when she chooses to say nothing, as she so often does, closing her mouth and smiling once more, smiling softly. Her smile. Her eyes. They could turn any man into a believer, for only a deity could produce a masterpiece as flawless as she is. Eren, carved from the bowels of a harsh, ugly world, bears the scars that tell the truth of his misfortunes, the calluses and features that gradually sharpened from enduring the anvil of his harsh life. But Mikasa, although as brittle and troubled as he and just as frail, just as broken, is as perfect as a clump of virgin snow: untouched, unmarred. An angel, truly. And Eren has always called her that. Even now, with that scar on her cheek and that ring on her finger and that makeup that he knows Hitch had to put on her for torturous hours, she is winged, haloed, and marvelous. The only hero in his sky.

A few more minutes, and Mikasa pulls her curls up into a neat bun, which most likely kills them. He eyes the flurry of activity behind her head. In a flash, she's done, and a tendril of hair falls out to the front of her face, which they both notice immediately. She gives a frustrated huff, and without thinking, Eren reaches out and tucks the lock behind her ear, fingertips brushing her cheek, clinging to the smoothness of her skin, the curve of her earlobe, the soft hairs that curl up around it like flames wreathing burning wood. And they know, the two of them, that this, right here, right now, is wrong. But they don't give a fuck. Flushed, Mikasa thanks him, and he goes all serious, swallowing down the apology that sits heavy on his tongue—because he truly is sorry, but he truly is not, and if there was a word that perfectly described being while not being, loving while not loving, accepting while not accepting what they have, it would be the definition of Eren's life. For he knows he loves her. For he knows, deep down, that he can't.

Still, the hope arises, a small flickers of light among the darkness of the night. God, please, let him love her. Can't you see that it's his fate? Can't you see that his heart beats solely for her? Can't you see that he is not alive unless she's near? Why, God, must he endure this torture? He hurts. Everywhere. He aches to hold her, feel her breath stealing across the sweep of his neck, her fingers in his hair, her palms over eyes that have seen too much, too much, and are so damn tired. Eren sighs, locking away the overwhelming feelings that color his life. He must love, live, and act quietly. For her, for her. For her, he must, he can, he will do it.

They are the only two people in the room. They do not speak, but the silence is welcome. They are alone, despite the hollering noise and laughter around them. Eren has read books of how lovers can meet in bustling places, and the force of their gravities pulling into each other washes out the rest of the world, how some are capable of making love through crowded rooms with just their eyes, and even though they are no longer an item, there is no denying it for him that with this woman, that is the case. It always has been, and something in him says, hopes, that it always will be too. Because she's the one. She's—

"Annie!"

Fuck.

Eren jumps as if his heart pulled him forward with a start. Maybe that's what he does now when his girlfriends enter the room. Mikasa frowns, then turns her head to follow the line of his gaze. A small blonde sporting ripped Jeans and a leather jacket, with eyes even bluer than Eren's, stands by the door. Everyone explodes into greeting. Everyone but him.

"Lionheart!" they cheer. "Finally!"

"I've told you thirty times, that is not my last name."

Mikasa swallows.

Her voice is like gravel rasping to fine flakes of dust. It is light, but dense. Rich, yet soft. The mere sound of her words makes her seem to grow in stature. Her presence, although mighty, is light as a howl's whisper. Much like the cry of a wolf or a coyote, she is lithe, fierce. Heard. Felt. Resonating. Her hair, spills of sunlight, curls back into a messy bun at the lower half of the back of her head, wisps of gold fanning carelessly out the flaxen cluster. There is not a tinge on makeup on her face, and still she is effortlessly stunning. Every small inch of her screams intimidation—even the brace around her wrist. There is not a hair of weakness on her body. Everything about her oozes hard, cold strength.

"Your girlfriend's here," Mikasa comments dumbly. Eren sighs.

"Yeah." He's frowning. At what, or why, she doesn't know. But then his gaze grows softer, and he turns to her and says, "Wanna meet her?"

"Ah…"

"Perfect! 'Cause she's coming over."

Haha…

_Shit._

Annie makes a beeline to where they stand, nodding once at her boyfriend (some greeting, that) and then blinking slowly at the gawking girl beside him.

"Annie," Eren clears his throat, "this is…" he pauses, not because he has forgotten her name, but because he has forgotten how to say it without weaving himself through every syllable. "Mikasa," he finishes slowly, carefully. "She's that old friend I told you about."

A ray of flattery billows in her heart, for Eren talks about her to other people.

"Nice to meet you, Annie."

"Likewise."

And they say no more.

Mikasa sips on her water, peering at the small woman over the rim of the cup. Next to Eren, Annie looks almost scary. Her eyes are so calm that they seem bored, but take in everything with sharp, keen flicks of primal instinct. Her blinks are almost apathetic. In fact, all of her motions seem apathetic, as if she set her body on auto-pilot, too careless to put in the effort to take on full flight. She's a fighter though. The sprained wrist, the look in her eyes, the sharp, slightly crooked shape of her nose all profess this. The same way a dancer dances, the fighter fights: with every step, breath, and beat of their hearts. In that, they are very much alike. Both seem like women who have been built not by their choices, but by the circumstances of their lives.

Onyx eyes shift to teal-greens.

Eren cringes slightly, frowning, pinned by her studious gaze.

Is this it? Is that what moving on for them has been like? Jean is like him in many ways, it doesn't take a genius to know that, and just looking at Annie is enough to know that she holds a lot of resemblance to Mikasa as well. It seems that in moving on, they simply found one another. All over again. And then again. Because that's what breaking up is. It's called "breaking" because you break away from the other person, and a piece of you is left behind with them, a piece of them latched onto you forever, the broken edges never to fit the same way ever again. "Breaking" for Eren and Mikasa has been not just learning to live on their own, but finding each other in other people.

How sad.

He frowns deeper.

"Eren," Annie utters, swiping her long bangs away from her eyes. "I'm gonna go hang out with the others." She gives him a look that says _aren't you coming?_

He hesitates.

"Uh…" Mikasa catches on to the way his eyes flitter to her then away, almost reluctant. "Yeah, sure. See ya, Mikasa."

Annie nods. "'Kay." And leaves with him.

He looks back.

Mikasa is left alone to stare, and wonder how in the world it is that her hands are shaking.

**—o—**

Shots are gross.

"Take another one, Mikasa!"

So, so gross.

**—o—**

Grey Goose? Nasty.

Jack Daniel's? Gross.

Bacardi? Disgusting.

And none of them get her drunk. None.

She seethes, sinking deeper into the couch she sits on, gawking at the dancing whirls of people and ignoring Hitch when she implies that Annie got her broken wrist from (pumping motion with a clenched fist). You know what she means.

**—o—**

It's hot.

She groans, undoing two buttons on her cardigan. Just two.

Her head feels light, yet too heavy for her neck to carry.

She stands.

"Come on, bitch! Dance with me!" That's intoxicated Hitch asking her to dance to cacophonous rap with some angry, spitting verse cut rudely right in the middle. This isn't music. It's knives drilling slowly into her skull.

Incredibly enough, Mikasa allows herself to be whisked away into the makeshift dance floor.

_Where's Eren? _a voice in her head wonders.

The girls gather around her, whooping and shoving for her to move.

She closes her eyes.

Feels the music ring her bones, rattle her heart, shake her.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, she does what she was born to do.

Dances.

And thinks: _Who cares?_

**—o—**

He doesn't speak to her again until there's a thin sheet of sweat sticking small hairs to the nape of her neck. She slithers in right beside him, the taste of beer going stale on his tongue. And Annie's gone to hang with the girls, and the guys all whoop and shout around a vigorous game of beer pong, and Mikasa singles him out, deems him worthy of her sweaty, splendid presence.

Her bun's a mess.

She's still wearing that cardigan, despite the heat.

She sighs, pulling a lock of hair from her cheek.

"Hey, stranger."

She's beautiful.

Eren's heart screams.

"Hey," he smirks, side-eyeing her. She's massaging her ankle, still in her heels. "How goes it?"

"Great," she huffs, fanning herself. Her cheeks are flushed, rosy. "I just danced."

"I saw."

"I hadn't done that in… in…"

"Ages?"

"Yes!"

"Ha," Eren chuckles, scratching his neck. "So, you're having fun, at least?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Good. I don't have to hurt anybody?"

"Nuh-uh. Everyone's been very kind to me—even Ymir!"

Eren smiles. "Someday, she'll bother to learn your real name."

"Meh," shrugs Mikasa, "I always wanted to be Mufasa anyway."

He laughs, and she smiles to herself, smoothing her hands down the skirt of her shimmering dress. Her eyes find the cup in his hand. She questions, "Beer?"

"Yep," Eren nods mid-slurp. "Want some?"

"No. Jaeger bomb. Whatever it is, I want one."

"Hold up." Brunet eyebrows dart right up. "You do?"

"Mhm."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Eren," and she looks deep into his eyes and says, "Jaeger Bomb me."

He scoffs, terribly turned on.

Oh sweet mother of fucking "YMIR!"

"WHAT!"

"BOMB!"

"How many?!"

"PLANE!"

"Bruh! FUCK YEAH!"

They have an odd way of interacting, those two.

Ymir hops over the counter a la drunken parkour, meaning that she lands on her feet-except just barely.

"Whoo!" She scrambles to her feet, straightening her jacket. "I'm fine, I'm good. Nothing happened."

Jesus.

"Drink with me," she tells him, and Eren has to breathe, because he's heard her say those words and those are words he has been dreaming to hear all fucking night and maybe he holds his breath because he knows he's crashing, maybe, yes, but maybe he does so the same way planes do before their bodies meet the ground and they become part of the lands they so ardently admired from afar, the same way that Eren, poor, poor Eren, willingly crashes into her.

"You're sure," he smirks.

"Yes."

And he loves her too much to turn her down.

"Alright, but just so you know, I'm buzzed already."

"Me too."

Oh, so that's the color on her cheeks, then. Mild intoxication.

Eren grins.

He's drinking with Mikasa Ackerman.

Mikasa Ackerman. Drunk.

"Oh, this is too good to be true."

"Shh. It's only for tonight."

"Hey, I'm not complaining."

"Can I have a sip of that?"

"Mikasa."

"What?"

"Don't go crazy."

"Ah," she sighs, undoing the buttons of her cardigan. "Too late."

Eren's eyes drop to her dress, and at least he has the mind to conceal his guiltless gawking, sinking his face into the cup and swallowing the remainder of his beer. When the cardigan falls down her arms and she takes her heels off, complaining quietly of the pain, she's suddenly an entire foot shorter, a shade brighter, a hue more colorful than the rest of the room. She frees her hair from her bun, and it falls in long, silken tresses, the length of which he has never seen them be before. In ways, she's new to him, a foreign body returning from the dance floor, but in so many, many more ways, she's still his map, his guide to life, the shell he memorized in his soul from countless hours spent marveling. Her dress is too tight, and he knows her well enough to understand that the only way she's even letting him see her like this is because of liquid courage, for only a tipsy Mikasa would sacrifice an ounce of her conservative air. Her breasts huddle close so that a slit the size of a pin needle stand out to him, and her humble curves scream provocatively through the redness of the fabric of her dress. He realizes that he has been here so many times before: Mikasa in a dress, lost, excited, gorgeous, perpetually and inexplicably sad, trying something her old self never would have. It's like the night they met all over again, after bumping into each other in the street. Except that now, instead of lewd or haunting thoughts, his mind prefers to study her, a sign of conscious growth.

She's amazing, this girl. Even now, so brave. Eren doesn't care how weak she thinks herself to be. She's the most admirable being in his life, and he's so fucking glad that she's back in it. Red dress, no shoes, pink cheeks… all she needs now is chocolate. And perhaps a jaeger bomb or two.

"Mikasa." She perks up at the sound of her name. "After this shot, you wanna do something crazy?"

"Like what?"

"Dance with me."

She stares at him. "Wh… What?"

"Dance. With me. Like we used to."

Ymir arrives with their shots, setting them on the counter, chanting, "Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!" As the others join in as well.

Through the haze of noise and laughter, Mikasa looks at him, smiles, breathes:

"I'd love to."

Then they drink. And he's sixteen, no, seventeen again, asking the girl of his dreams to dance with him and smiling like a fool when she says yes. Smiling so hard even his dimple hurts. Smiling so much. _Smiling._

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you so much for your continuous support and feedback. You keep this story going, you really do. Until next time.


	16. Drops of Blood On An Endless Ocean

**A/N:** I cannot believe how much I missed writing the past chapters. Please excuse any typos or rough ends on this chapter. I wanted it to be as honest as possible, and thus edits/corrections were very little to none.

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.:_ Drops of Blood On An Endless Ocean_:.

.: Chapter XVI :.

* * *

What is loneliness? For a long time, Eren thought the answer to this question was rather simple. He sees now that he'd been wrong, for loneliness does not come with simply being alone. In fact, being lonely and being alone are two extremely different things, like what fire is to ice and what Eren is to Armin and Mikasa. So different, in fact, that they could be opposites.

Opposites. After Mom died, Eren began to find lots of these. He also found that things he thought contrasted one another, like happiness and sadness, are very much alike. That day, he found out what true loneliness is, for he was surrounded by people, and yet the void inside was so big, so consuming, it swallowed any minute sense of company or safety granted by the warm spirits by his side.

Without Mommy, everything is empty. Laughter is empty. Music is empty. What once were bloated, heavy things, became hollow and weightless. Empty. Empty. So much emptiness. In the principal's office, accompanied by his frowning father, with the school nurse wrapping his bloodied hand in bandages as the other held an ice pack to his busted lip, he felt, and was, not alone, but incredibly lonely. The principal and his dad were going on and on about what happened, the consequences that were to be ensured, the severity of his wounds and how to treat them.

Can they fix his heart instead?

Eren wondered, sighing.

Nope. Nothing could fix him.

He looked up. Dust lace hung from the ceiling. In the particles, he searched for Mom. She would know what to do, what to say to him, how to calm Dad down. But she's gone, and Eren is lonely, and he closed his eyes because they stung with tears and Dad always taught him that men don't cry, they swallow up their emotions and let them gnaw at their hearts instead.

"Eren."

He was twelve, and lonely, and not alone, but so effing lonely.

"Eren Jaeger."

He thought of Mikasa and Armin, how they try and try and try to help and yet… And yet…

"Eren!"

"What?!" he snapped, clenching an aching fist. His father sighed sadly at his tone, too tired to reprimand him.

"You understand," droned the principal, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, "that this is your second fight this week. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to suspend you."

"For how long?" Doctor Grisha worried. He worried often, for he's never home, and he had no friends, no family, no relations that could help him raise his delinquent of a son. "He'd be on his own at home, I'm sure you understand that. Can't he spend his days in detention instead?"

Eren groaned in disgust for two reasons. One, he'd rather kiss Sarah Hale on the lips (a grotesque punishment, that) than spend his days in detention. And two, his father, the great Grisha Jaeger, was not asking, but begging. Eren hated it when he begged. He looked so weak when clad in desperation. Mom would hate it too.

Mom would hate what both of them have become, actually.

The school nurse, Mr. Hannes, placed his hand on the top of Eren's head, signaling his goodbye. Eren peered up at him through bangs that had grown too long, and the two said nothing. Hannes, a male school nurse, was once in the military. He was given a dishonorable leave, spent a big chunk of his life battling alcoholism, and lost his children and wife to an ambiguous accident. He'd been through a lot, and he understood Eren, accepted him, never yelled or scolded him, only listened. That's why he went out of his way to wrap his wounds outside of the nurse's office, and why he sometimes let Eren take naps on the nursing beds when he should've been in class because the noisy students made him anxious. He was deeply flawed, but a good man.

So they said nothing, and then Hannes left, and the only link of sanity Eren had in him severed. The principal passed the verdict: an entire week suspended from school, and Dad looked like he could cry. Eren looked away. Men don't cry, he told himself. Men don't cry. To some sick, twisted degree, men aren't even human.

Monsters. Monsters are what ate Eren up inside. Always. They're always there, seething, roaring, fighting to break free. And they do. God, they do. They take form as fists and kicks and bloody lips and purple eyes and swollen cheeks and raw, deep red trickling down his fingers. That's what his demons were. Anger, anxiety, sadness, violence. Often times, he did a good job of keeping them hidden. But then a kid in class would provoke him, say he was the son of a woman that "probably tastes like _grave_" and then the ugliness would break free, and Eren was no longer a man, no longer human. He was what his father and the principal treated him as, with scorn twisting their lips and disdain coloring their eyes, hissing:

_Monster._

**—o—**

In his dreams, Mom is happy.

And so is he. They're together, sharing a slice of fresh pineapple—her favorite fruit. Eren never did like pineapple much, but Mommy loved it, so he told himself that he did too. She tells him about her day, which usually consisted of lots of sleeping and amusing books and TV shows. Eren made a mental note to read all these books, and watch all these shows, and chomp down all the pineapple in the world if it meant finding his mother. But then came the rude awakening, the sleepy smile that faded from his lips and the eyes that shot wide open to find his bedroom ceiling and not a single trace of Mom.

Reality hurt. Reality hurt so, so much that Eren was convinced simply being alive would someday kill him.

He didn't know how he did it, but somehow, he lived his life without his mother. The afternoons where Mikasa would appear at his doorstep with a smirk and his homework in her hands helped assuage his agony, for the girl's simple presence was a relief to him in itself.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she told him one afternoon after he'd awoken from his third or fourth nap of the day. "I got your schoolwork. Mr. Hannes says hi. Armin also."

"Where is he?" Eren asked, stepping aside so that she could enter.

"Studying. Big test coming up. You know the drill."

Ah, yes. That he did. Armin was his best friend, but when it came to schoolwork, Eren always came in second. It annoyed him to no end. "Mik," he sighed, running a hand through his bedhead. "Can I ask you something?"

Mikasa straightened from the coffee table, where she'd set his homework down. When she turned to face him, Eren noticed a freckle on her cheek he had never caught before. The dwindling sun crept in through the windows, sighing around her frame, caressing her gentle features and setting tendrils of her hair ablaze in red, fiery light. He felt a funny feeling in his gut, then shooed it away, tearing his eyes away from her.

He sat down on the sofa, and Mikasa followed suit. Her body sunk into the cushion beside him, nearly pulling him to her end. But he cleared his throat and scooted away a little bit, so that there was a comfortable space between them. The girl blinked slowly, and Eren still couldn't help but catch all the little things about her that had surfaced with the passing of time. He thought of how his mother would compliment her on her long hair, remark on how beautifully it spilled down past her shoulders in glossy tresses she always pulled back, but how that single lock of hair that always fell to her forehead was too stubborn to be contained, how she should cherish the minor imperfection. Her chin had grown sharper and smaller, eyelashes even longer, nose pointier and lips more glossy than before. Two subtle swells began to form beneath her blouses, and Eren had once overheard Mrs. Ackerman complain about having to purchase training bras for a daughter that was growing far too quickly. It'd made him laugh, but now, all these changes weren't all that funny. He wondered how much he had changed himself, and couldn't help but feel a pang of pain that his mother would never be there to witness his freckles growing sparse and his new braces and how his eyes changed from a bright green to a softer blue.

"Eren," came Mikasa's voice, a whisper of calm in the calamity of his own head. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he assured her, watching her frown.

"What did you have to ask me?"

"Do you have ballet today?"

"No, today's Tuesday."

"Would you go to our bench with me?"

"Our bench?"

"Yeah, the grandpa bench. Let's go."

"Eren," Mikasa said, placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him from standing. "You have homework."

"It can wait."

"No."

He groaned. "Stop coddling me."

Mikasa blinked, taken aback. "I am not coddling you."

"You are too!"

"I'm doing what's best for you."

"Right now, I need a friend, not a mom."

"I am your friend."

"Then act like it!"

"Don't shout at me."

"I'm not shouting."

"You're shouting."

"Oh my fucking—" royally annoyed, Eren plopped himself back on the sofa. "You know what? Forget it. Forget I ever asked."

There was silence.

Scarcely anything brought Eren any peace, but Mikasa did, and when she didn't, like right now, his heart fret, frenzied. He sighed, run his fingers through his hair, bit his lip, bounced his leg up and down and it was then that he began to feel the monsters, the sadness and anxiety and pain all creep up between the cracks of his skin and travel into his flesh, where they took root and burned and cooked him and—

Mikasa placed a hand on his thigh, stalling it. "Alright," she breathed, a tender look in her eyes. "The grandpa bench it is."

**—o—**

They didn't go to their bench. Instead, they trespassed the giant willow tree behind it and ventured into the woods, until they found "their meadow", a vast plane of hilly grass unperturbed by trees but littered by thorny rose bushes that permeated the air with their scent whenever the breeze felt like blowing a tad too strongly. The sun set among the hills until all that was left was the remnants of its gorgeous light: soft pinks and blues and purples that made the sky seem like a Van Gogh painting. If Eren's arms were long enough to reach the clouds, they'd paint his fingertips with iridescent ink, and those would spill from his hands like gilded tears, following the paths of past bloodshed.

This little plot of land is where they always went to stargaze. Armin was the one that discovered it, and looking at the stars without him felt almost like treachery. But Eren needed the stars that day. He needed them, with Mikasa by his side. Only Mikasa.

They laid on their backs, and waited until the first few specks of white peeked through the cotton candy sky. The sun left, the moon waltzed right in, and Heaven became a back ocean, teeming with bright, flickering fish. Some remained exactly where they were, others swam across with lightning speed, carrying wishes the two twelve-year-olds were far too embarrassed to voice aloud to one another.

Eren wished for his mom.

Mikasa wished for more time with Eren.

They both closed their eyes, sealed their wishes to the sky. One of them sent their hopes to God, the other—the non-believer—sent them to the stars, until there were so many he could no longer count them. For a breath, both teens found a sliver of peace. They said nothing.

Until: "Eren?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you fight so much?"

He was quiet, his eyes closed. "You gotta fight to win, remember?"

"I remember."

"Well, that's why."

"Still, not everything is a war."

"Can I ask you something, Mikasa?"

"Shoot."

"Why do you love me?"

She was the one to fall into silence this time. She swallowed, blinking slowly. The stars burned above them, breathing in and out, matching the slow cadence of her lungs. In her silence, Mikasa reminisced. She thought of the last time Eren had asked her something similar, just before Carla died. He had asked if she loved him, and she had said yes. Peering at the stick-on, glow-in-the-dark plastic stars on his bedroom ceiling, she'd professed to love him the way that stars loved the moon. This love prevailed, remained untouched. If anything, like a fern, it had merely grown taller, and stronger, casting an overwhelming shadow over the small girl. But now, he was asking why. _Why do you love me?_

Well…

"Why do you ask?"

Eren opened his eyes. He knew that what he was asking her to answer was unfair. One does not simply ask others why they love them, then expect a satisfying answer. Especially Mikasa, a girl of such few words. So he changed the topic, tore a gash in his soul and let himself pour right out.

"I'm lost," he told her candidly. "I feel so lost, Mikasa. So lonely."

Her eyes on his were sad. "Eren…"

"I hate myself," he sputtered quietly, suddenly unable to hold back. "I feel like I'm drowning. I hate that I live in this skin, that I breathe and think and stuff. I hate it, Mik. I don't know what I'm feeling half the time but it's so much that it drives me crazy. I hate it. I hate myself."

This alarmed her. She rose on her elbows, peering through the darkness and into his eyes. "Don't," she hissed. "Do not speak like this, Eren. You are incredible."

"No."

"Yes! Look at me. Look at me, please."

He did. Slowly, Mikasa fell back on the grass. They both turned on their sides to face each other, the breeze blowing on their clothes.

"From the moment I met you," the girl said, "I knew you would change my life. And you have. Please, don't cry."

He hadn't realized that he was.

Eren sniffled, clearing his throat. He held still for a moment, waited the tears away. When he felt that they had left him, he opened his eyes again, looked at his best friend in the eyes and told her, "I've just… I've been thinking. The thing about people is… they get sick of you after a while. Haven't you noticed that? Every single person leaves eventually, so really, what's the point? Why do we even bother putting energy into relationships that won't last? I mean, haven't you noticed that? It's all great until they see that they've got you, or they've gotten what they want from you, or there is nothing more you can do to further benefit them—so they toss you out like a trash bag. Bye. Done. You start wondering what you ever did wrong. Was it something you said? Aren't you enough for them anymore? Well, apparently you're not, and good luck finding out the reason for it too, because they never tell you 'hey, stop messaging me, I think you're an annoying shit'. No. And that's what's really heart breaking. When people get tired of you, when they leave, there's no grand ceremony to help you cope with the loss, like the funeral was for Mommy, even though it's a sort of death in a way, I think, because nothing returns to the way it was before. It's just so fucked up. You don't even get a notion, a notification. All you get is ignored signals, lack of communication from their part, and the simple reality that you just have to fucking deal with it. There's no goodbye. Just 'move on'. Because in the end, everything just means nothing. You mean nothing. Nobody cares. So why do you open up and bother to trust others? Can't you see they just don't give a shit? You think there's anyone out there genuinely interested in who you are, solely because you exist? No. That's all just a big fucking fairytale. People want what they can get out of you. That's it. And if you make the mistake of getting attached to them, well, that's your own damn problem. When you're crying yourself to sleep, aching for company, with not a soul by your side, you'll understand it. We are alone in this world. The only thing we'll always have is our own company. Everything else just comes and goes."

She was the one crying now. Her words were shallow breaths. "Where is all this coming from?"

"I'm crazy," he breathed, tears bubbling all the way from his heart to the corners of his eyes. "I drive myself insane with my thoughts. I just take and take. I'm killing my father, I know it. And I killed Mom. I kill the people I love with who I am."

"Have you told the therapist all this?"

"No."

"You should," the girl sniffled. Crying was such a normal thing between them. Like laughter and anger, just a mere show of emotion that brought forth no shame. "Maybe they can help you."

"Do you love me?"

"Of course I do."

"I don't mean it like that. I mean—"

"I know what you mean, Eren. I love you. I've loved you all my life. At least, I can't imagine my life before you came into it. You've changed me for the better, and kept me company through the worst. You are my friend, my companion. And I love you, I do."

Her hands found his face. She held him, thumbs wiping at his tears. Eren ached. He ached for a slice of heaven, for his mother's touch, for hands he hadn't felt in two years. But Mikasa, his angel, was the closest thing to the sky that he'd been granted.

"You always know the right thing to say," he smiled ironically, snot dripping from his nose.

Mikasa snorted, snot dripping from her nose too. They were a mess. A crying, laughing mess. "Well, not always."

"Almost always."

"That's good enough."

Closing his eyes, Eren melted into her hands. He was hers, all hers. And something told him that she knew that. "I'm scared," he whispered, and he was. God, he was. Fear latched onto him like a permanent sticker, a brand he could not take off.

"I am too," the angel said, and this gave him consolation.

He was not alone.

"The world is so big, and I am so small. I'm scared, Mik. I feel so lonely."

"But you will fight. And you will win. And I will fight with you. I will protect you, Eren. You are my family. You're not alone. Don't say that."

"I'm sorry."

"Please, don't apologize."

He smiled. "Okay."

And that was when she kissed him.

Her lips on his were chaste, gossamer. Kisses on the lips were a grown-up thing, but they still did it. To Eren, it was mildly confusing at times. Did she do it because she liked him? Like, _like_ liked him? Was it something else that surfaced with the passing of time? He could've just asked, but he dare not to. Nothing could destroy the purity of that moment, not even his curiosity. And it often went like that: Eren and Mikasa escaped into their own little corner of the world and bled to one another, until exhausted vials were all that remained of their hearts. And what a relief it was to bleed. And bleed. And bleed. With her, he could be as ugly, as monstrous, as anxious and imperfect as he truly was to the core. And then they'd rise, dust the grass blades from their clothing, and amble on into the night, hand-in-hand, spirit-within-spirit. He'd walk her home, and then return to his bedroom, flip off the lights, and fall asleep with the day's clothes still on, the taste of her lips glowing on the tip of his busted, bloody mouth, the elixir to his wounds, the remedy that glued his jagged pieces back together. The sun would rise the next morning, the hours would tick away on the clock, the air would slip into his lungs as life pumped through his veins, and like a never-ending flame, he burned, burned, burned.

**—o—**

Eren healed, slowly.


	17. The Pleasure's All Mine (Part II)

**A/N:** Tada! *jazz hands*

* * *

**.: Not Over Yet :.**

.: _Pleasure's All Mine (Part II)_ :.

.: Chapter XVII :.

* * *

Everything is blue.

His eyes. The lights. His jeans. And then deteriorating colors manifest to a red as intense as her dress, her cheeks, her lips, and they fill his vision like the liquid that brims his shot glass and sears a path down his throat.

Gray smoke and pearl smiles and lilac fingernails invade the crimson tint that colors his eyes—and everything is bright, and great, and… no, fucking _fantastic_. The rosy tip of her tongue peeks out and sweeps along the soft plush of her bottom lip, a cushion she's quick to sink her teeth into. "Come on," breathes the iridescent lisp of her voice, and his hand melts into hers, rearranging itself to fit her palm like a puzzle. They reach the makeshift dance floor, and then her touch tears from him so painfully he swears she takes a layer of his skin away. But she makes up for it with the look in her eyes, the intoxicated grin that splits to exclaim, "Dance with me!"

He's drunk. He knows because he laughs a nuance louder than usual. Though he does not know whether alcohol is entirely at fault. For all he knows, to be guided by the spirited bouncing of his heart, and to marvel at the night sky orbs etched on her face, is the true cause of this tipsy glory.

They dance.

Somehow, without tripping over the other. Halfway through, he decides that she's drunk too. She _has_ to be. A sober Mikasa wouldn't be this carefree or—he daresay—this adventurous. A safe distance towers sturdily between them, but she's the one to unroot it from the ground with a single whispered word: "Closer." His friends all dance and sway around him in a tangle of swinging arms and twirling bodies, and even Annie joins them in their drunken cavort. But when Mikasa laughs, like she's been doing so, so much lately, and prowls close enough that he can smell her perfume, nobody else exists, only the colors she's emitting and the alcohol that sparks through him and ignites every atom, every hair, every aspect of his being.

His flame bursts to wildfire, for she grabs his hands and pulls him to her, turns so that her back is at his chest. He gasps at the contact, wonders if she can feel his heart pounding at her spine, feel the blood rushing through his veins and washing through his body like waves that stretch to caress her sweltering skin. Their bodies move together so splendidly that Eren wants to cry. He'd feel pain or guilt if he wasn't so damn happy. She guides his hands to her hips, where they anchor for what he hopes is all eternity, but as if they have a mind of their own, they move up. Up. Up. Up. She throws her head to the side and he feels her waist, ribcage, arms—they fly up, fling themselves behind his neck—and he thinks of how the sculptor sculpts, how every ridge and bump and conscientious curve produce his masterpiece, and it's as if Mikasa molds herself to fit into his hands, the way that figurines carve themselves out from the mind of an artist. The work of art laughs, and she's so out of it, but so is he, and after all those jaeger bombs, who can blame them? His breath steals across the sweep of her neck, eyes catching flickers of her jaw, and for a second—just a second—there is no engagement, no past or future, no Hitch or Jean or Annie. Only this. Only his hands grasping at the stranger he knows so well, her happy little giggle before she spins to face him, peer up into his eyes.

Seconds pass and the beats in the music pound at the walls around their hearts. She stops smiling. Eren realizes that he's stopped too. Swirling lights swim across her features, illuminating shadows he swears weren't there before. Is she frowning? Is she sad? Scared? No. No. Eren marvels at her bravery, the feeling of her dress lingering in his hands, staining his fingertips like a kiss they long to taste longer. That pesky tendril of hair falls over her face again, and he sweeps it behind her ear once more, only this time he is not sorry. Like a fool, the fool he is, he looks into her eyes even though he knows they're made to kill him. Steely gaze falls to his mouth, cutting through fog and smoke to reach him. It isn't until he feels her breath on his lips that he realizes his hand cups one side of her face, that he's leaned in to breathe her in.

Then he hesitates.

And she doesn't move.

Her glassy eyes become too heavy, flutter shut. She tilts her head up, exhales, and he dips to move closer, fall into her. He respires, intoxicated lungs contracting with every breath, and she smells so nice, like Chanel No. 5 and sweat and happiness. She looks like a dream. She feels like ecstasy, a pleasure so divine he needs to close his eyes to savor it. Drunk, content, drowsy, his lips crawl a breath away from hers and he's surprised she hasn't shied away yet. Instead, amazingly, she holds still. He wonders if she's even breathing. And he was born for this, for this very moment. To hold her, to feel her, to be glad and wasted and full of drunken jubilee and no regrets, only love, only so, so much love for this gorgeous, sweaty being that holds still and—

"Mufasa!"

She jumps away, gasping.

"Mufasa! Your husband's here!"

"Husband?" She breathes, eyes wide. Sweat sticks threads of her hair to the side of her neck. Her chest heaves, sinking her cleavage. "He's here?"

Eren tenses, cheeks aflame.

"Jean," says the woman he nearly kissed.

"I see him," says the woman who didn't turn her head away.

"Eren," says the woman who might have let him kiss her, whose face is still in his hands. "Will you meet him?"

No. No, no, no. He closes his eyes, lets his hand wilt away from her like a dead flower. He—_they_—had felt so alive. And now, the sadness that'd been shooed away by alcohol resurfaces, a cold spike impaling the inflated joy of his heart. It wheezes, deflating.

"Sure," he voices despite himself, because her eyes are pleading and god, he cannot bring himself to refuse them. "Sure, why not?"

"Come on." Her hands capture his, and he fights the urge to drag her away, to run and run and run until the distance between her and this Jean is unfathomable even to the sea. Unapologetic, he lets her pull him away and stares at her ass, smirking to himself when he thinks he's gawked long enough for Jean to notice. He hasn't met him yet—or ever seen him—but he's already intent on making his life a living hell.

But then she lets go of his hand.

To embrace her fiancé.

And Eren realizes what he's thinking, and what a selfish, selfish ass he is. But to watch the woman he loves throw her arms around another man and hold him is to be set ablaze and burn alive. He's dead, but somehow walking, pausing just a mere two feet away from the happy, stupid couple. He seethes with envy, so much so that he feels the emotion crawl all the way up to the tips of his ears. He hates the man. He hates, hates so much now.

Mikasa stumbles into Jean, and he gives a surprised cry. His voice in Eren's ears is like nails on a chalkboard. It makes him cringe. And he does. Visibly.

"Hey, baby," says the man. "Having fun?"

"Oh, yes," she croons, releasing him. "So much fun."

"Are you drunk?"

"No."

"You're drunk."

"No, I'm not!"

"Holy shit, 'Kasa! You're drunk, baby!"

"Hush," she hiccups, excusing herself. "Shush it, you."

Eren rolls his eyes so strongly he gets dizzy.

"Eren."

He jumps.

"This is my fiancé." Lazy hand sweep between them: "Jean."

"Ah, Eren," says the dude, with a wide-ass smirk and an offering hand. "Your brother, is he not?"

Eren frowns, his cheeks burning hotter. "Excuse me?"

"Jean thinks he's funny," Mikasa interjects, giving her fiancé a stern look.

"I'm only kidding," he smiles, "I love messing with her."

"Is that right?"

Awkward silence.

Eren sees Mikasa tense.

Begrudgingly, for her, he takes Jean's hand.

"It's nice to finally meet you," he slurs, tasting the sour lie.

"Likewise," smiles the stranger. "It's good to finally meet one of her, er… friends."

"I bet."

"How long have you two known each other?"

_Long enough for me to take her virginity. _"Some time."

"For years," says Mikasa. "We go way back."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"How nice."

"Isn't it?" Eren grins. Suddenly, Jean squeezes his hand. It startles him. Green eyes flare wide momentarily, and a challenging look hardens in the stranger's gaze. Mikasa doesn't see, so Eren narrows his vision, glaring at the man.

"Why don't you go get your stuff, baby?" he orders her.

Blinking slowly, she nods. "Be right back." Then she's gone.

Eren sniffles, clearing his throat, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"That's quite a grip you've got on you," says Jean, nodding at his scarred hands. "What do you do?"

"Martial arts," Eren murmurs, clearing his throat. "I box too."

"How nice."

"How about you?"

"Do you really care to know?"

"Nope. Not really."

"Well, that does it, then."

"Yup."

"How do you know Mikasa?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"Are you having a hard time answering them?"

"Not at all."

"Then I'm sure you can answer pretty quickly. You _do_ know this is her first time drunk, yes?"

"Yes."

"And you're drunk. High, too, I would presume."

"Oh, yeah," he chuckles. "Like a kite."

"How charming."

"You'd know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

Jean laughs. "You're an interesting one, Eren."

He mumbles, "Thanks."

"Someday," sighs the man in Marc Jacobs pants, "I will understand what it is that draws her so much to you."

"Well, you're going to marry her," smirks Eren, running a hand through his hair. He can still feel Mikasa's body lost in his, her nails scraping lightly at the back of his scalp, carving paths into his skin he isn't sure will ever fade now. Realizing only a fraction of the severity of what had just occurred, of what is still occurring, he tests, "It'd be best to figure it out soon."

Jean's jaw tightens. He flexes his hand, and Eren swallows, for those very palms have touched Mikasa countless times he could not—and cannot ever—control, soiled the flawless expanse of her skin. "Do me a favor," he says, staring into him. Ardent gazes smolder one another. "Watch over her. Protect her, while I can't. Please."

Eren opens his mouth. No words come out.

"I…" Fuck. He can feel himself coming down from his high, eyes falling to his feet. "I will. Always."

"Good." And with that, their conversation ends.

"I'm ready," the girl finally appears, swinging her purse over her shoulder. "Thanks for tonight, Eren. I had fun."

He gives a dimple-less smile. "Me too."

With his hand by the small of her back, Jean guides her away, whispering, "Let's go, baby," into her ear, loud enough that Eren can hear. He hates how he calls her baby, how he holds her and whisks her away.

He hates him.

Mikasa looks back over her shoulder to wave, a tipsy smile dusting her lips.

Jean does too, but to stare at him.

_Watch over her, _his eyes echo. _Protect her, while I can't. Please._

_Always_, sighs Eren's heart, surrendering. _Always._

"What was that?" says a voice behind him.

It's Reiner.

"Nothing," Eren murmurs, the music swallowing his words. "It's nothing."

"You two looked like you were gonna, like…" his friend trails off, groggy eyes swimming. "Heh," he chuckles, taking a sip of his drink, "I'd rather not say."

"Reiner." Determined eyes dig into drunken ones. "Give me a shot."

"Of what?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Aren't you drunk already?"

"Not drunk enough."

"Did that man shake you up so much you need to get plastered now?"

"Shut up." He doesn't understand. Reiner doesn't love anyone the way that Eren does, he's not a victim of this condition, this disease. He's lucky, unplagued by the hell that is loving Mikasa Ackerman. Tonight, he held her, nearly kissed her, then lost her just like that. His heart aches, wails, so he means to hush it with whatever he can get his hands on.

In this case, it's alcohol.

"Alright," his friend capitulates. Eren can tell that he's reluctant, but he moves to the makeshift bar all the same. Soon, shots are being poured and glasses are clinking, toasts are voiced and necks stretch with heads that tilt all the way back, throats swallowing every last drop hungrily.

To love, they'd saluted. To love.

**—o—**

For her first time being drunk, Mikasa is doing extremely well. (Or, at least, this is what she tells herself.)

She's walking straight. Jean says she's not, but honestly, who even asked him? His chuckles make her hiccup the occasional giggle or two, and not only is everything funnier when you're drunk, but your body feels light yet too heavy to carry simultaneously. It's like she's floating while remaining planted on the ground. To be intoxicated, she philosophies, is to find the perfect equilibrium between two opposite extremes.

In her vague and somewhat limited experience, she has come to understand that there are five types of drunks in this world: the happy drunks, the sad drunks, the angry drunks, the philosophical drunks, and the horny drunks.

You won't believe which one she is.

With a bravery she summons from Lord-knows-where, she throws herself at her fiancé the moment their apartment door shuts, locking it behind him and crashing their lips together before he even has a chance to take off his coat.

"Babe," he pants after a moment, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She closes her eyes, remembers how Eren had done the same. "You're hella drunk."

She smiles sleepily, whispering a small laugh, "I know," then kisses him again. It's so relieving when he kisses back. With just as much heat, as much fervor, as much want. She can't remember the last time they had sex, and her drunken mind tells her that she fucking deserves it. Literally.

Her feet nearly trip over her own coat on the floor, but Jean catches her, pulling her close, bunching the skirt of her dress in his hands, which makes it ride up her legs—and she finds this very funny.

"Is it yours?" He questions through her titters.

"Nope. Hitch's."

"Who's Hitch?"

"Doesn't matter."

They kiss again, and when his hands cup her rear and his fingers contract, denting her ass cheeks, she feels herself sighing, hears her own moan get lost between his teeth. He's kissing down her neck, framing her ribcage with his hands when she turns her head to whisper in his ear, ask him to make her his. And he doesn't object. Her eyes roll back when her back meets the sofa and he kisses the tops of her breasts, the dress rucked up around her waist as he creeps a hand between her legs. It's when his head is between them and she's arching that she thinks to prompt him further. He's the Jean she loves and remembers, strong and forceful and daring, and he teases her, tonguing softly through her panties and smiling brightly when she whimpers his name.

He moves to suckle at the insides of her thighs, and she lets her eyes close, images of the night flickering behind her eyelids. Red and blue lights flood her vision, then transform into a bluish green she knows only to be Eren's eyes. Sighing, feeling her fiancé suck a hickey onto her skin, she delves into the colors, swims, feels rough hands carved around one side of her face, the sweet smell of his breath on her lips, how she'd longed to taste it, one name—one—sitting heavily on her tongue.

Eren.

It's the most beautiful name in the world. She could say it all night. She could paint the entire sky with just one utterance, one. Tipsy on the remnants of his presence, she smiles, heaves through thin lungs and parts her lips to call for him, her roaming hands reaching out to—

"What?"

Suddenly, she realizes that Jean has paused to gape at her. His question echoes in the air.

"What?" Mikasa raises her head, blinking down at her fiancé. "What is it?"

"What did you just say?"

"What do you mean?"

"You just…"

"What?"

"Did you just…?"

"What, Jean?"

"...call me Eren?"

She blanches. "I… What?"

"You just called me Eren."

"No, I didn't."

"Then what did—?"

"Air," she deadpans, clearing her throat. "Window. Air. Open the window and let the _air in_. That's what I said."

"Um."

"Yeah."

"I'm…"

"Jean," she sits, pouting, pulling at his pants. "I'm hot. Open the window. Take my clothes off." She can feel herself swaying, her fiancé's hands trying to steady her, failing. "Please," she breathes, or slurs rather, whining: "Make love to me."

He squints his eyes at her.

Two seconds pass.

And then: "No."

She gasps, "What?"

"Honey," Jean sighs, clutching her shoulders so that she doesn't fall back, "there's nothing I would want more, but you're so out of it. I can't take advantage of you like that."

"But, but, but I…" she stammers, flabbergasted. "But you have my full consent!"

"Drunken consent."

"So?"

"Nope. Won't do it."

"Jean!"

"A good man doesn't take advantage of his drunken fiancée, no matter how hot she looks in her red dress. Come on." He curves his hands underneath her, scooping her up off the sofa with a soft groan.

"Jean," she objects weakly, melting into his arms, "but I want—"

"Shhh, it's time for bed. We can talk about this tomorrow."

She frowns. "Poopie."

Jean kisses the top of her head before placing her gently on their mattress. She sinks into the bed, and he commences to undress her. "Up," he asks her. "Arms up." Soon, she's sitting completely naked. On their bed. Watching as he ignores her and searches through her cabinets for her pj's. Unfamiliar with where she keeps her stuff, he settles for giving her one of his own shirts instead, sighing sadly when she refuses to put it on.

"'Kasa," he frowns, sitting on the bed by her feet. "You have to get dressed."

She pouts. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Miki…"

"Jean."

"What?"

"I'm naked."

"I know."

"I'm completely naked."

"Yup."

She spreads her legs.

He snaps them shut.

"Dang it."

"Shirt," he commands, smiling at her tiny whine. "Come on, baby. Put it on."

Finally, she does. The scent of his clothes crawls into her nostrils, canceling out all redolence of Eren's smell.

Did she really… moan his name instead of Jean's earlier?

She grimaces.

Oh, God. She did, didn't she?

Jiji bounces onto the bed, curling up beside her. She sits, studying her fiancé's face as he tries to slide socks on her feet, growing frustrated because she keeps wiggling her toes. She laughs.

She just moaned Eren's name.

She laughs louder.

Everything is so damn funny. She uttered the wrong name! And now she's not getting laid because of it! Ha ha! HA! She plops back onto the bed, clutching her belly, roaring. Jean ignores her, intent on fully dressing her. But his touch on her toes only makes her giggle more. She's never laughed this hard in her life; nothing has ever been this ridiculously funny. After a moment, she recovers, staring at the ceiling above, her pulse thumping in her head.

_Oh, shit._

"Jean," she gasps with a start, startling him.

"What?"

"I have to…"

"What?"

"I…"

"What, Mikasa?"

She opens her mouth and promptly vomits all over the carpet.

**—o—**

She is so… so… _so_ beautiful. The kind of beautiful men carve out from the stars in the desert, searching for guidance in the pupils of her eyes. She leads them to safety, sometimes to destruction, depending on how captivated the mortals are. And Eren, poor Eren, is transfixed. He floats to her, like a moth to a flame, only to burn.

He rolls over on the bed and throws his arm around her sleeping figure, inhaling her scent. She smells of magic and last night's booze, of love and gorgeous memory. Sighing, he opens his eyes, sees a spill of her inken hair draped across his pillow. He smiles. Closes his eyes. Sighs again. Smiles.

"Mikasa," he murmurs, feeling her stir. She moves enough that his arm falls away from her, prompting his eyelids to peel. Blinking, he catches her visage, gapes in mild astonishment as he sees her transform.

Her hair turns blonde.

Her eyes, blue.

Her skin, even paler.

Her ass, smaller.

She isn't Mikasa—not anymore. She's… She's—

"Annie?"

"Eren."

"AAAHHH!"

Thud.

"Ow!"

Calm as ever, Annie watches him fret and fall off the bed.

"Dumbass."

"What the— Holy f— Oh, my—" Eren stammers, feeling for his clothes. They're still on him. Thank God. He sighs, relieved. Then checks for the zipper of his jeans. Still zipped shut. Hallelujah.

"What…" he breathes, still on the floor. "What happened?"

Annie stretches her arms over her head, yawning. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" He goes to rise but a pang of pain in his temple cuts him short. He melts back onto the floor, groaning.

"Ah, careful," his friend tells him. "You're probably hungover."

"Fuck," he moans, squeezing his eyes shut. "I feel like shit."

"You look it too."

"Did we…?"

"What?"

"You know…?"

Not one to make violent facial expressions, the blonde drones, "You wish, Jaeger."

"Not even kissed?"

"Nope."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Damn," he blinks, scratching his belly, mildly proud of himself. "That's a first."

"Yes. Luckily, even wasted out of your mind, you still wouldn't dream to sleep with me."

"I don't mean—"

"I know what you mean, Eren," she sighs. "I only stayed the night because I was worried."

"Worried?" he frowns, sitting, blinking at her. "Worried about what?"

Her eyes on him grow somber. "You."

Eren scoffs, smirking. "Me? What's there to worry about?"

She scoffs too, as if to say _a lot_. So he throws a pillow at her. "Relax," she says, catching it. "You were saying lots of crazy shit, and Hitch and I got worried. She offered to stay with you to make sure you wouldn't do anything crazy, but knowing the nature of your, um, relationship… I insisted I'd stay."

"Well, thanks."

"You're quite welcome."

"What was I saying last night?"

A beat.

"You wouldn't want me to tell you."

"Why?"

She's quiet for a long time.

"You said you killed him," she voices after a while, staring at her wrist brace so as to not see the way his features harden, how his gaze sinks. "You kept saying it: 'I killed him, I killed him.' And you cried. You cried more than I've ever seen you cry, Eren. You really worried me."

"I was drunk," he dismisses, shaking his head. "You shouldn't have taken me so seriously."

He goes to stand, rising slowly. His hangover nearly pins him to the ground, but he rises nonetheless. It's her hand on his wrist that stops him.

"Eren," Annie says, and he flinches. "Can I ask you something?" She doesn't wait for him to nod yes. "Did you really kill someone?"

Eren sighs, and wonders what he must look like to her eyes. He's embarrassed for whatever he said last night, for breaking down and shedding tears. So much so that a big part of him wants to believe it never really happened. But Annie isn't a liar, and she wouldn't just lie to anyone, especially to him. She'd have no reason to. He knows that.

_Is _he a murderer?

Have the calluses of his hands ever killed? Were they acquired from taking life, instead of fighting to keep it?

"I already told you," he voices slowly, and without looking at her. "I was drunk."

Annie doesn't say anything. Instead, she gives a rare smile and nods. Her silence is assurance enough, for she frees his wrist and rises from the bed before he does. Eren doesn't say anything and neither does she. She offers to make him breakfast, and he says yes. Sure. Why not? Her scrambled eggs are banging.

He tries to crack a joke, which doesn't even make her smile.

And he knows why.

**—o—**

Leaves, when blown by the wind in a chorus, sound like waves.

It's these little fragments of nature that Mikasa thinks Eren was born from. From the games of trees and accidental miracles. That's why his eyes are the color of forests, but also the color of the sea. So many shades of green and blue, vibrant and dull hues alike fusing and forming like galaxies. She could count the stars, but she's already memorized them. Every freckle, every speck of gold, every feature of his face—memorized.

And that is why she dreams of him.

Lately, every single night.

She is awoken by the songs of birds, and for a moment she feels that she is at her parents' house, a child rising to a new morning. But birds sing in cities too. She is in bed, in an apartment, waking from childish reveries to her fiancé calling her for breakfast. Jiji sleeps curled to her side. She rubs at her eyes, yawns, stretches, then goes to stand before sliding her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers.

In the kitchen, Jean awaits. He's made pancakes, but not the kind with chocolate chips in them. Mikasa loves the kind with chocolate chips.

"Good morning," he smiles to her over his tea, and she kisses him on the lips despite her morning breath.

"Mornin'."

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

They eat in relative silence, Mikasa cutting each individual pancake into small squares. She pops some into her mouth and chews, groggy eyes blinking slowly.

"You threw up a lot last night," her fiancé says.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Don't be. Shit happens."

"Right."

Silence again.

The clinking of cutlery on plates and Jiji's occasional meow is all they hear for quite a while. But then: "Baby… Can I ask you something?"

She swallows her food, scratching the corner of her eye. "Sure."

"Who is this… Eren to you?"

Good question.

He's everything and nothing. A stranger. A friend. Bearer of no future but of all her past. He took many firsts from her, but also many lasts. Forever had once been a promise that tied their souls together. But once upon a time, six years ago, the string broke, and now here they are. Funny how life works. Forever doesn't really mean much, and neither does never, for she swore never to associate herself with him again.

He's a freak of nature, born from contrasts and miracles and parceled by the very stars that created him in their image. He's so much, sometimes too much. The song of birds and leaves and the low crackle of fire, the wild burst of fireworks, the swooshing and pushing and pulling of the wind and the sea. A hundred miles an hour, and it doesn't stop. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Spinning, reeling, a hurricane, a storm you can't run away from. He's so much, Jean. He's just too much.

"He's nothing," she breathes, staring down at her fork. "Just a friend."

"A friend."

"Yeah."

"And you've known him for years."

"Yes."

"Which means that now, you rediscovered each other—in a way."

"I…" She swallows, closing her eyes, wanting the conversation to be over. "Yes, I suppose."

"When will you go see him again?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose it doesn't."

"I doubt we'll meet anytime soon."

"Well, you sure seem close."

"We just have a past."

"What kind of past?"

"A difficult one."

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Alright. I'll stop asking questions."

Jesus. The air feels tense, the pancakes sour. Everything—wrong.

_Stop, _she tells the voice in her head, which calls her a liar. Ever since Eren, she's done nothing but lie to the man she swore to spend the rest of her life with. And what does that make her?

_A slut,_ the voice in her head purrs.

She cringes. _Be quiet._

"I'm going to the park today," she says finally, pushing her plate away, hoping to alleviate the awkward atmosphere somehow. "Would you like to come?"

Jean shakes his head, sighing. "Can't. Work. I've got shitloads to do."

Mikasa sighs, too.

Of course you do, Jean. You always do.

**—o—**

Murderers go to jail.

They live behind bars, caged in with their own demons.

Eren doesn't live in a cell, though.

He's got his walking, breathing body instead.

"You alright?" Annie asks him.

He sighs into his coffee.

Is he?

**—o—**

At the park, she searches for their bench. It takes her three minutes to find it, two to walk to it, and another two to finally sit down. She's alone. But she doesn't mind. Sometimes solitude is the utmost company. Especially in a place like this.

Snow dresses the city in white, lounging on the bodies of naked trees and gray buildings. Fragments of sunlight prick through the windows and branches, thawing Mikasa's pinkened cheeks and catching some small hairs of her ponytail, blazing them red. The sky is clean and blue, cleansed from a night of snowing.

She waits.

For what, she doesn't know.

Maybe Eren will magically appear, pop out from behind a tree and say hi to her. She imagines the sound of his voice, the freckle under his right eye, the prickly hairs on his cheeks from not shaving. His long hair. His eyelashes. His shoulders. His lips.

She sighs.

This is their bench, and she remembers how the grandpa bench back home had been a sanctuary, an escape. Will this one be the same?

She heaves a deep breath, taking in as much air as her lungs can manage.

And at that moment, a body appears. Sighing smoke, she studies its shape, all the nooks and crannies, the edges and curves, how one end molds into the other—like a jigsaw puzzle. Her eyes place the pieces together, and when the man is close enough that her heart gives a sigh of recognition, she smiles, greets the old friend.

"Hello, Levi. I've been waiting for you."


End file.
